The room was cavernous, gigantic, and swarming with Robloxians. Massive screens were mounted to the far wall opposite the entryway. On these screens, the proceedings in the Tix vs. Robux argument were being shown. The cameras were mounted above the heads of the crowd. Below the screens, the floor had been raised to about five blox taller than the surrounding floor. This created a stage. On this stage was a large black chair, to either side of which were panels covered in small white buttons. The wall to the right of the stage was covered in weapons; rifles, pistols, submachine guns, machine guns, rocket launchers, and bombs were present. But mostly, there were bombs. This was, after all, the Associates' headquarters, and the Associates were experts when it came to pyrotechnics. Especially the more... lethal variety.

Jack and Namek stepped into the room, at the heels of Chairman Decahedra. Decahedra had been a sight, to be sure. Covered head to toe in dark armor, he was a fountain of leaderly energy. He spoke in a raspy voice, with an accent that was incredibly hard to place in Jack's mental map of ethnicities. When Decahedra had greeted Ereuy, the man had looked as though he was about to shit himself.

Decahedra increased his pace, walking up to the stage. He made his way up the stairs, towards the chair, and then into the chair, where he sat imperiously. Jack, for a moment, half-expected a white, fur-covered animal to come bounding up into his lap, and Decahedra to lovingly pet it while explaining his evil plans. Instead, the Chairman flicked a switch on the arm of the command chair. The lights went out with a CLANG! The only light was the stuff coming from the gigantic display screens, until a spotlight came down and skewered Decahedra in its brilliant light. The chair rose slowly into the air, moving on a support column. It stopped, at the midpoint between cavernous ceiling and hard metal floor.

Then Decahedra spoke.

"Our plans," he said, "are not yet at the point of completion. But, we've implemented another plan, one that will be sure to amuse us during the time when the larger plan is in development. We, my friends, are going to bomb the Council Chamber. Yes, you heard me right; I said that we are going to attack the one place that nobody will expect us to, at exactly the wrong time for the Admins, and the right time for us. After all, are we not terrorists? Are we not Associates of Chaos?!"

The crowd of people cheered. Jack and Namek tried to cheer along with the rest of them, but they simply couldn't. The magnitude of the plan was just too much.

"The bomb will go off when the Admins make a decision on Tix vs. Robux!," Decahedra continued. "When it does go off, there will be blood! There will be fear! There will be... terror!"

As the crowd resumed cheering, Jack saw, out of the corner of his eye, a movement from Namek that was barely percievable, but a movement that was so rapid in effect that Jack could only remember it in freeze-frame. First, Namek produced his knife from a hidden area. Then, he threw it at the seated Chairman. The next thing that happened, Namek was rolling to a different position, revealing the SARGE strapped to his wrist, and launching a volley of small concussion rockets straight at Decahedra. Decahedra was, however, not an easy target, and here was why: the knife that Namek had thrown only a few seconds before, at breathtaking speed and accuracy no less, had been caught in one metallic hand by the blade as though the laws of sharp edges did not effect it. The concussion rockets glanced off of Decahedra's armor, exploded on the ceiling, and made some of the light fixtures wobble a bit. Decahedra chuckled.

"Well, we have a traitor amongst us," he observed, and threw the knife back at Namek. The blade struck Namek's right shoulder and sank to the hilt, through vest, shirt and all. Namek wobbled a bit, and tried to pull the knife out, but already there were terrorists swarming around him, grabbing his arms and pinning them behind his back. Namek was breathing hard, and blood was dripping slowly from the knife lodged in his arm.

"Guards," Decahedra ordered, "kindly remove this man's goggles and face-scarf. I would like to get a good look at my attacker." His seat retracted until it was at floor-height. Decahedra got up from the throne and walked over to Namek, who was now unmasked and staring at the ground with determination etching his brow. Decahedra stopped, and examined the agent carefully. And then he laughed, a hollow sound, like something out of a crypt.

"Well, well," he cackled. "If it isn't 'Namek', Agent of Spectre Branch... Tell me, Namek, how's the life now that you've forgotten?"

"...What makes you think I forgot?" Namek growled. "I never forgot the man who ruined my life."

"Would I be that man? Me? You know, I always thought I was doing what was best," Decahedra confessed. "But, apparently I have not done 'the Right Thing'. Guards, take him to a room with no windows, no air vents, and NO WAY OUT, if you please."

The guards hit Namek over the back of the head, and dragged him away, down a passage to the right of the stage. A door slid shut over the entrance to the passage, and then Decahedra was striding back to his seat.

"You are all dismissed," he said. "Get to your drills, your studies... your dishwashing. I've got some history lessons to catch up on." And he sat in the chair, in thought, as Jack walked without his fellow agent down another corridor.

Namek was gone. Decahedra seemed to have a personal vendetta against him... Actually, they seemed to resent each-others presence. But what had Decahedra done to Namek in his past? Had Decahedra been the one responsible for giving Namek his crisscrossing network of scars along the back of his hands, forcing the man to wear gloves to mask them? And what was Namek's "life that he'd forgotten"?

A terrorist pulled along beside him.

"Hey, TehCool," he said, "we've got weapon cleaning duties together in five minutes."

"Right," Jack agreed, remembering in time to stay in character. "I'll follow you there."

"Good man," said the terrorist, and together they walked down another corridor, to a large gray door marked with yellow and black line patterns. Upon entering, a great table was revealed, stacked high with dirty, smudged rifles and pistols. There was a large bucket of cleaning liquid and a small mop nearby. The terrorist picked up a mop, and handed the other one to Jack.

"I'll do one half, you do the other," he said. Jack nodded, and while the terrorist was busy on his side cleaned the weapons on his own side. Then, having an idea, he tapped the terrorist on the shoulder. The man turned to confront Jack.

OOO

A minute later, Jack strolled out of the weapon cleaning room. The terrorist hadn't given much of a fight. In fact, after he was brought down, he had stayed down. Jack had stolen two submachine-guns from the table, after he'd cleaned them of course. Now he was walking confidently down the hall, devoid of terrorists for the moment.

Jack was a bad aim with a pistol or a rifle, or for that matter any other one-shot-at-a-time gun. However, he had a thing for submachine-guns. They didn't require aiming. They required spraying copious amounts of bullets at the intended target until they collapsed from blood loss/shock/lead poisoning. SMGs were exceedingly simple, especially these two in his hands. They were Model 478 Submachine-Guns, and their instruction manual (once he had read through it all) was a simple paragraph:

"The little green switch in the corner is safety. Flipping it down turns it on; flipping it up turns it off. Any questions?"

Jack grinned. As he entered a large vehicle room, the guards turned and surveyed this rogue terrorist walking serenely towards them with double SMGs.

"What's he doing?" a guard asked another guard.

"He's crazy," replied the other guard. They leveled their Stun Rifles at Jack. "Please refrain from using the weapons, or we will-"

Jack raised one SMG-toting arm lazily, and swung it in a wide arc. Bullets crackled out of the barrel. The guards fell dead. Jack used the other SMG to take out a camera that was slowly swinging around to meet his figure. He then surveyed the vehicle choices in the room: one jet fighter, ten cargo trucks, and two humvees. He selected one of the two humvees, and with relish he hotwired the key syste,. The car sputtered to life, and Jack pressed his foot down on the gas. The humvee roared to life, turned, and smashed dead on through the opposite wall.

It rumbled out into daylight, on a busy pavement. Luckily, it was in the midpoint between lanes, so no cars hit it, although a few drivers looked inquisitively at the military vehicle sitting half-exposed in a hole in the ground. Jack placed his foot down again, and merged into a lane of traffic going out of the city. On the way out of the hole, however, he had dropped a timed grenade he'd found in the glove compartment. Then he could really end his engagement with a bang.

OOO

Block sat in his room in the Spectre Branch Headquarters. He had nothing to do, really. Bored out of his mind, he sat and sat.

His walkie-talkie buzzed loudly in his pocket. Block hurriedly fished it out, and held it up to his ear.

"Block 'ere."

"Hey, this is Jack. I'm calling to report that Namek's been captured, and that there are two bombs in the Council Chamber that are being controlled by the Associates."

"Right," said Block. Then, "Namek's bin captured?"

"Yes. When you fly over the highway near the Council Building, there'll be a large hole in the asphalt. That's the entrance to the Associates's base. Go in there and deactivate the bomb."

"'Old on, yer don't 'ave the authority to do dat!"

"Since Namek's in there, I'm sure I do have the authority to order you in there."

"Ah, alright." Block turned off his walkie-talkie, shoved it back in his pocket, and stood up from the bed. He then walked out of his room, and summoned five agents before disembarking from the room into the vehicle hangar.