+++MARCH 30, 2012+++

Stephanie Danvers knelt on the cool, damp earth and looked to the three sullen mounds where her comrades lay. Those places underground were perilous enough - she suspected the daily losses in Russia were higher yet - but to have it demonstrated so totally was still shocking. She had never seen death before - as a woman from a lower middle-class family in New York City, to see men die in the flesh had been something outside her understanding. She fingered the crucifix hanging about her neck - those men were somewhere else now. Somewhere better, hopefully.

She did not cry, but the lump in her throat was still there. Mark and the others had been good men. The sword hanging at her belt however, felt warm like no other weapon she had touched had. It was like a part of her, an extension almost of her soul. Like she had recovered a part of her body lost from birth, and now she was wondering how she could ever have got by without it.

Her respects paid, she left the small cemetary and went to look for Bradley. She had feelings for the man and she needed to talk. She found him on the sparring ground, matching himself against a few of the new troops. The three of them were barely holding their ground. The battle shifted quickly to Bradley's favour, and a minute later they were sweatedly leaving the arena.

Their eyes met instantaneously. Bradley approached slowly, noticing her shyness, and offered to buy a drink at a nearby bar. They got to the place quickly enough, Bradley ordering two glasses of sparkling water and choosing an isolated set of seats.

"You alright?" Bradley asked, noticing the woman's silence.

"Yeah," Stephanie replied. "But that fight in the caverns is still dwelling on me."

She sighed.

"I know," Bradley said wistfully. "Mark was a great guy. Damn shame he had to die that way. Bastards got way too lucky that time. But don't blame yourself. You couldn't have saved them anyhow."

"Yes," Stephanie said. "I know I couldn't have made a difference. But it still haunts me."

"I can see that in your eyes," the man said, his hazel eyes touching Stephanie's sky-blue ones. "I've lost men before. A raid into the site in Russia. Almost all of the team killed by those things, and we never even saw them. There we only heard their voices in the dark around us, and the patter of their feet on wet stone."

"I can imagine-"

"I ended up alright - so will you probably. But damn if it didn't hurt me after to know they had all died under my command."

He turned his head down.

"Brad-Bradley," the woman continued, a hesitance developing in her voice distinct from the sadness she had been experiencing. "I don't know but I've been having some...feelings about you. I didn't want to say because of the mission and all but I think you should know now. I...I don't know, but I think I'm beginning to fall in love with you."

Bradley turned his head up and drank before speaking, seeming hesitant to reply.

"I know, Stef," he said. "I've been having much the same thoughts. I can honestly say I'm attracted by you. I want to see you happy. I love your face, your hair, those long legs and those pretty blue eyes. You're so beautiful. I want to hold you and never let go."

"Thanks. I never really thought of myself as beautiful before. I never really thought-"

"It's alright," Bradley said. "I know. I love you."

Stephanie paused a good while.

"Care to go on a date?"

+++APRIL 13, 2012: OMAHA, NEBRASKA+++

Ted Phillips was going to broadcast his program again tomorrow. Uttering a melodramatic prayer to God for protection from demons before lying in bed, he fell into a drifting state of semi-sleep as he began to doze off. As had become common this past week, the Voice spoke. It was mellifluous and flattering as always, promising the rich rewards that he knew it would give him if he followed its instructions.

He remembered clearly how it had appeared to him, even drifting in half-somnolescence as he was. It had been the day after his latest program, excoriating that NYC singer (what the damn lesbian slut called herself he didn't care to remember). It had been a middling hit, and the Sunday after, the Voice had come to him. It had asked his name and he had gladly given the answer. The Voice had been pleased and continued speaking. It was the Lord of Gifts, and was going down from 'above and outside the world' as envoy for the coming of 'a greater and yet more glorious Lord, who will come as herald of glorious apocalypse and ending of days'. Nothing with that voice could be wicked or act agaianst God, he knew the instant it said those words.

Now the Voice said it would help spread his message across the US and start an army to fight for the return of this great Lord and topple the evil forces that lurked in Washington. Phillips knew for a fact those forces existed - how else could a goddamned African take over the White House, if not for Satan's help? The Voice said he would be rewarded for following its instructions - he would be praised, all would listen to him. The God-blessed United States would be restored to its ideal Christian form, returned to the great glory of the Founding Fathers - if he just listened to it, said what it told him to say, and followed his instructions whenever they were given. It was a fair enough deal, all things concerned.