Writer's Notes: and here is the second part of what was originally going to be one very long chapter. Some readers have asked me why I decided to split the chapter; in response to their point, the best reason I can give is that the original chapter was very long (12,000 words), very dense and thick with important details, dealt with many themes, and (after you read this chapter) makes for one crazy roller-coaster ride. Therefore, I though breaking it up into two smaller chapters would make it easier and more "digestible" to the reader. Especially as this next chapter gets pretty crazy and "heavy metal-ish", so be prepared for that!

Chapter XXV:

IMMIGRANT SONG

Another Time, Another Place.

She looked around her. These... Humans surrounding her, all engrossed in their own politics and petty matters, all completely ignorant of her. She did not even need to employ a glamour all the time, for as long as she kept her long hair in the feathered style that seemed to be the fashion among their women these days, none of them were the wiser.

Right now, "Adrienne", as she had taken to calling herself, was sitting in the corner of the cafe. She took a sip from the coffee and winced a little – Human food and drink was (barring few exceptions) always poor and tasteless compared to her native fare, but it served its purpose of satisfying her necessary caloric intake, and after a quarter-century of being trapped on this world, her palette had adapted accordingly.

Outside, she glimpsed a large crowd of younger Humans gathering, men and women, all of them with long hair and brightly colored and flowery clothing, like some uglier and lower budget mockery of her native people. Even from inside, her heightened sense of smell could pick out the pungent odor of the green-weed they would frequently ingest (and that she herself had tried out on occasion). They were marching as a group, chanting and waving placards reading slogans like "leave 'Nam NOW!" and "make love, not war!" and "leave Chile alone!" and "impeach the president!"

Speaking of which, her attention next turned towards the television at the other end of the cafe - a primitive thing of cathode ray-tubes and copper wiring, completely unlike the Warp-based holographic displays she had used in another life. But it did its job well enough of portraying the ugly face, sweaty forehead, receding grey hair, droopy cheeks, and long nose of the man purported to be the most powerful of all Humans. He was reputed to be a man of great political savvy, ruthless and ambitious, but ultimately lacking in personal skills, a fact that came across clearly on the visual mass media of these people. "I'M NOT A CROOK!" he declared, emphatically. Adrienne rolled her eyes; one need not be a psyker to see the truth (or rather lack thereof) behind the President's remarks.

The Human dining at the next table shook his head. "Mark my words," he declared loudly to the friend sitting with him, "you'll NEVER see a more screwed up time in this country!" Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that, she smirked; she could think of a myriad different ways things could and would get so much worse for these deserving beings.

These Humans... funny creatures, all of them. They are like a mockery of us – they look like us, but they are so much less. They are so weak in mind, body, and spirit, completely lacking in the psychic touch. They are so easily manipulated, so ignorant and short-sighted thanks to their pathetically short lives. They are so painfully primitive, they have only just landed one of their own on their moon! (Though then again, the fact remained that only a mere century ago they were still utterly dependent on horses and slaves and dirty filthy coal, so perhaps some credit was due unto them).

She despised them, and yet, at the same time, being trapped here and having been forced to live among them, she had to admit she had come to find them oddly endearing in many ways. Their lives were pathetic and short, but they seemed so driven and determined to make the most of what little time they had. Even if that usually meant dedicating their life-energies to noble and admirable but naive and often misguided causes; whether it be lines on a map or colors on a flag, or some vague and abstract ideas like "equality" or "world peace" or "Civil Rights" and so forth.

In any case, she was stuck here for the foreseeable future, so she had no choice but to make the best of the situation. Far as she could tell, it would probably be at least another century-and-a-half or so before she could finally put her plans into action. Beside that, she knew of at least one Human who commanded her respect and awe. That, and there was indeed one art and one alone in which the Humans could rightfully consider themselves the equal to her people, and it was in their music. Right now the radio (another of their crude but functional devices, though one could argue the scratches and hisses added some appeal to the music) was blaring away with one of her favorite compositions, by a performing troupe who called themselves by the name "Lead Zeppelin"...

Adora snapped to. For a moment, she could still hear in her mind the repeating staccato riff of the lead guitarist, or the distinctive wail of the vocals, not sure if this was a vision or reality. Gradually, though, her vision cleared, and the first thing her eyes beheld was (again!) that cheap plastic toy of the Peanut Farmer, its head continuing to bob up and down, as if mocking her. She groaned.

She was still lying down there, in the Navy man's office that had become like her own personal torture cell. Outside, the fire alarm was still wailing loudly. She had removed most of the poison – tiny traces of it still lingered here and there, but she would live. For now. She supposed that was about as good news as she could have hoped for at this moment.

Wearily, she clambered to her feet, knees bent inward, gripping onto the desk for support. She was a right mess, wasn't she? Ugh, that's just lovely, she reminded herself, bitterly, the Gods, in their infinite wisdom, made it so that our blood and our shit too turns to crystal, but evidently not our puke. Fantastic!

Her head still felt like the morning after one of those rowdy "all senses awakening nights" she used to partake in back in her younger and considerably less mature days, millennia ago. But at least she was thinking a little more clearly than before. She tried out the vision again.

Around here, the world turned dark, though Adora could still see the room and the world immediately beyond, all traced out clearly in glowing white lines. She could sense the Humans by their souls in the Warp – could see the myriad souls of all the Americans around here, the wounded and dead where the two missiles had detonated, the rescue workers and emergency first responders tending to them. She could see the boys in their uniforms, with their little toys, frantically combing through the entire building, in pursuit of their target.

Further afield, she could catch sense the mass panic, the rioting and looting spreading throughout the millions of inhabitants of the city and, just to the south, she could catch glimpses of the conflict boiling just beyond the horizon: fighter jets and missiles rocketing through the air, while below squadrons of jeeps, tanks, armored personnel carriers, or those brand new "Humvee" cars advancing across the fields and woods. Out at sea, a fleet of large warships, including one that was like an ancient ironclad warrior of a bygone era, were sailing full steam ahead to the scene.

And she could see the Assassin too, though just barely, more like a mist stalking through the hallways of the building than a single, physical person. From what she understood, these Assassins were frequently used by this "Imperium Of Mon'Keigh" to hunt down members of her own kin in that dark millennium from whence they came, and so she imagined some modicum of learning how to obscure (if not entirely conceal) their presence in the Warp was an essential qualification for the job.

From the looks of it, the boys of "Alpha Team" had done their work, but not by much. She would have to move in the next few seconds. She was just about to do just that, but then paused. There was something else she could sense through the Warp, something she had not felt in a while. It was oddly familiar and reassuring to Adora; she could have smiled weakly, but stopped herself, for there was no promise that it would be exactly what she thought it was. But right now, it was her only hope that she could think of; for otherwise she knew this Assassin would pursue her to the ends of this planet and back, that much was clear.

Adora pushed herself forward from the desk and took a cautious few steps. At least she could walk again. She opened the door, checked the hallway once more, and set off.

Elsewhere:

"Movement, nine o'clock," warned Capt. Packard, the ticking on the reader spiking slightly. The special agent – "Adrienne", he recalled her name was – had warned them that they would be dealing with an ultra-elite ninja assassin who could evade the best detection systems to the point of being virtually invisible, but there were work-arounds. Alpha Team were all dead to the last man, God have mercy on their souls, but at least one of them had landed a shot on the bitch.

The boxlike device he was holding in his left hand was large and clunky; it was secured around his shoulder by a strap, but in order to read it, he needed at least one hand to hold it at all times. It was ticking away when he pointed it down the hallway to his left; the little red glowing seven-segment numerals displayed a distance of 21.3 meters... and closing.

Out of a couple dozen special passive integrated transponder (PIT) tag-equipped rounds that had been handed out to Alpha Team (some newfangled thing the DoD just conveniently had lying around their secret warehouse or whatever, no doubt; those and the depleted uranium-tipped rounds as well), all but one of them had been accounted for back in the cafeteria, found embedded in the walls or in the furniture. The one missing round though was on the move, which meant one thing.

Alpha Team had tried and failed to end the bitch's rampage, but thanks to their sacrifices, Bravo Team now had a chance to make good on their work and finish the job. To this end, Bravo Team had brought up some heavier ordnance. Packard turned around to see Chapman and Cole coming up right behind him, each brandishing a Milkor grenade launcher. Corporal Nieves came up behind them, packing what looked like a shotgun but was actually a special pump-action "China Lake" grenade launcher, very rare thing – the brass musta cracked it out just for this special occasion. Packard himself was toting his trusty Winchester M97 in his right hand, you know, for "close encounters".

All of this and yet, if Packard was being entirely honesty with himself, he was scared out of his Goddamn mind. This thing, whatever it was, had torn through Alpha Team like they were wet tissue paper. 30 men, all shooting at it with just about everything but the kitchen sink, and it still got away. Oh God, he wasn't going to be forgetting the fucking massacre they had just seen in the cafeteria on their way here; it brought back unpleasant memories of 'Nam.

The only good news was that it looked like Alpha Team had managed to score a few hits on the bitch, judging by the weird blood they'd found splattered in several places. At the very least this thing bled, and if it bled, that meant...

"We got movement!" warned Packard again, "18 meters and closing!" Bravo-Team had reached a junction where one of the corridors running from the inner ring to the outer ring intersected with a corridor that followed C-Ring. At his signal, everyone took up firing positions on either side of the opening to the hallway.

"15 meters and closing!" warned Packard.

"I don't see shit," remarked Cole.

"You think she could be up in the air vents?" piped up Chapman, looking up nervously at the grate right above his head.

"Don't be silly, those are way too small for a person!"

"I dunno man," added Billy, one of the other men in the squad, "she's a shape-shifter or some crap like that, right? Maybe she can turn into a snake."

Packard held his right hand up, calling for silence, and checked the radar again. 9 meters and closing. He dropped the radar gun and reached for his shotgun. It had an under-attached flashlight; he clicked it on and then shone it down the hallway.

The light's beam illuminated a woman approaching them, with red hair and blue dress, high heels clacking loudly along the floor. It was Adrienne. She was sobbing uncontrollably and limping, a bullethole in her right thigh was visibly bleeding. No wonder she had set off the radar; she must've gotten hit by a stray PIT round during the firefight in the cafeteria.

"She's wounded!" piped up Pvt. Chapman, stepping forward, "sir, we gotta help her!"

Packard, however, wasn't so sure about this. "Hold it right there!" he commanded; aiming his shotgun at the woman. Something was fishy about the whole situation, and if serving in the Army all these years now, having lived through 'Nam and whatnot, had taught Packard anything, it was to always trust his gut. "If you can walk, you can talk!" he shouted, "what's wrong?"

Adrienne did not answer right away, and continued gibbering away, as if delirious with fear.

"English, bitch!" growled Packard, "do you speak it?"

Adrienne stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say next.

"It's her!" shouted Packard, and pulled the trigger.

Another time and place:

A dark warehouse somewhere, only a single electric light glowed from a hanging fixture – a primitive and blearing incandescent lightbulb. Directly beneath the light, a man was tied to a wooden chair with lengths of barbed wire. He had been stripped completely naked, to rid him of any weapons or other objects he may have been carrying; the rusted iron barbs cut savagely into his wrists, shins, and waist. Blood was dripping down his arms and legs, forming a puddle at his feet, and his skin was severely lacerated, bruised, rubbed raw and peeling away.

She circled him, slowly, like a hungry hawk. Her prisoner was a Human male, but one that she knew was radically different from anyone else on this planet. She looked at one of the many small effects and items she had removed from him, objects that were not of this world. This one was a badge, two stylized letter I's crossed, with an hourglass inscribed in the center, the symbol of the group that called themselves "the Ordo Chronos"...

"So, Mr. Inquisitor," she began, adopting an affable tone, "oh please do tell me more about the 40th millennium."

Her prisoner glared at her, and retorted, defiantly: "may the Emperor damn you eternally, Xenos witch! You and your entire abhorrent race!"

"Ah, yes, about your so-called 'Emperor'. You see, I'm afraid I..." she began, but was interrupted when he spat in her face.

The glob of saliva stopped in front of her face, hovered in mid-air for a second, and then dropped to the floor. She was not amused. "Very well then, Mr. Inquisitor," she replied, calmly, "a pity, I was hoping we could do this the easy way." She then laid her right palm across his forehead. Let's see you're hiding in there...

She heard screaming next, but it wasn't the Inquisitor's. Adora's mind flashed back to reality. There was a bloodcurdling scream accompanied by gunshots echoing through the hallways. Well, at least she knew exactly where the Assassin was, but it was not very far behind. She limped onwards, her mind set on the destination ahead of her.

Elsewhere.

Only one of the men was still alive; he was slumped with his back against the wall, a deep stab wound in his torso. As Sgt. Powell approached, he could see that the lone survivor had rank insignia denoting him to be a captain; the dog-tags around his neck gave his name as "PACKARD, SAMUEL M."

"Soldier," said Powell, crouching down in front of him, "what happened?"

"I think... I think..." gargled Packard, blood drooling out of his mouth, "I think... we... hurt it."

"Yes?" said Powell, "how? Where did she head to?"

"I... I... think..." continued Packard, "...bitch... left me... alive... watch them... my men... die." Packard tried to continue, but most of his words turned to incomprehensible rambling.

"Sarge," said Hightower, "can we save him?"

Powell looked up at Hightower. He'd seen a fair number of gangfights and shoot-outs in his time on the force, had even patched up a few folks after those. Maybe they did have a chance of saving the captain, but that would mean breaking off the pursuit. Then again... this... crazy ninja-lady had managed to cut through two squads of troops sent after her, all by herself. What good were two lowly cops like them against something like that? He looked back down at Packard; he sighed. Maybe this whole chase was for nothing. But at least here they might make a difference, even if it was a small one.

"Search the others," ordered Powell, "see if one of them's got a med-kit." Hightower nodded and got to work, looking for anything they could use. Powell, meanwhile, grabbed the combat knife on Packard's harness, and began cutting through the wounded infantryman's jacket and fatigues to remove them.

The walkie-talkie clipped onto Powell's belt hissed to life. "Sarge!" came Conklin's voice, "where are ya? Precinct just called, we got backup on the way. Like, finally!"

"Conklin!" replied Powell, "about damn time! We found Bravo-Team, one survivor and he's wounded; we'll need you to bring a stretcher, on the double!"

"I wonder if any of those still work," muttered Hightower, glancing at a discarded MGL on the floor nearest him, a bandolier full of 40mm grenades next to it.

Deep beneath the Pentagon,
Arlington, Commonwealth Of Virginia:

The Pentagon was built back in the days of the Roosevelt administration to house the War Dept. (now called the Dept. Of Defense, because apparently "Defense" is the more politically correct term than "War") in anticipation of America's imminent entry into World War II, and with that, a massive expansion in the size of the department. It was also built almost entirely out of concrete, due to wartime steel shortages. And it was designed with twice as many bathrooms as needed, with separate facilities for whites and blacks (though, thanks to FDR's direct orders, this policy was dropped, which meant that until just 20 years ago, it was the only place in all of Virginia exempt from the Commonwealth's mandatory Segregation laws).

The building's unique shape came about because it was originally to be built on the site of nearby Arlington Farms, which had a roughly pentagonal shape, before the site was moved to its current location just prior to construction commencing. Even after relocation, however, the structure maintained its distinctive shape, both to save time and money on having to redesign it, and also because FDR himself apparently liked the design.

At least, those were the official reasons given. Though one had to wonder sometimes if the five-pointed shape served some other, more esoteric purpose...

Indeed, oft-overlooked was the fact that the above-ground structure was just the tip of the iceberg. For beneath it lay a vast underground network of basements, bunkers, tunnels, and of course the essential foundation piles sunk deep into the mud of the Potomac, needed to support the weight of such a massive and heavy structure sitting on what was otherwise basically a swamp.

In the deepest of these bunkers, two men sat at their station, keeping a vigil. The room around them was kitted out with bunks, lockers, weapon racks, computer and radio equipment, a side-door leading to the separate bathroom area, and stacked plastic storage bins holding enough supplies to last years, for in the event that a war ever did break out, whoever was on duty here would get sealed in for God knows how long.

At the far end of the bunker hung a pair of large flags, covering almost the entire rear wall of the room – the Star-Spangled Banner on one and on the other, the Great Seal Of The United States, the Eye Of Providence atop its unfinished pyramid, staring out blankly at all who entered the room. And behind where these flags hung stood just what exactly was so important that at least two men would continue to guard it even long after the surface world above them had been rendered uninhabitable.

"What do you think's going on up there?" asked Lt. Garvey, quietly looking up at the ceiling as if expecting to see through it or something.

His superior, Capt. Autumn frowned, unsure of what to say. Several hours ago, their shift had been just about to end and their two replacements would take over, when all of a sudden, the alarm had been raised, and the two of them had been sealed up down here since then, with no idea of anything save for several brief updates they'd received over the radio. Apparently, a war had indeed broken out, but not with the Reds as he'd been expecting, but with a new enemy. These... aliens, whoever they were, had landed invasion forces all around the country, all over the whole damn world, even hitting the Reds too, but worst of all was a large ground force just a hundred miles south of here.

The last report they'd received, over half an hour ago, had warned of an enemy spy on the loose in the capital, and after that, nothing. Granted, in all the brouhaha going on upstairs, Autumn could understand that he and Garvey had probably been allotted lower priority, and that was part of their expected duties. Still, though, another update on the unfolding situation would be nice, a little something to cut the tension...

Without warning, there was a knock and a thud on the bunker's heavy steel front door. Autumn immediately stood up to see what the commotion was, but before he could do anything else, the bolt on the door slid back by itself, and the door swung open. A lone figure stood in the doorway, shrouded in darkness. Autumn grabbed his gun and shouted: "hold it right there!"

In this line of work, Autumn was told he should always expect the unexpected, but as their unannounced guest stepped forward, out from the dark tunnel and into the dim lighting of the bunker, this was perhaps the most bizarre thing he'd ever seen.

The intruder was easily 6'6", maybe more, with bloodshot eyes and long but messy auburn hair pulled to the right, exposing a single pointy ear on the left side of her bruised face. She was bare-foot, and dressed in what was probably supposed to be a blue business suit fashionable these days except that (of course Autumn would notice) her top was stained and ripped wide open, and her skirt was hanging low on her hips, missing a belt. She was covered in what could charitably be described as if she puked all over herself and then rolled around in glitter after that. And she stank strongly of alcohol and other smells he could not quite place. Autumn also noticed something sticking out of her side, what looked like a... Sharpie? What the? It was just poking there, held in place by a long strip of duct-tape wrapped around her midriff a couple times.

"Kovacs, Adrienne," gasped the intruder, quickly, "Sp-sp-special agent... I have authorization to-to-to access..."

"Sir, look!" exclaimed Garvey, "her ears!"

"I... I can explain..." stammered the intruder.

"Alright, ma'am, put your hands up!" demanded Autumn, sternly, "you're gonna have to answer some questions!"

The stranger rolled her eyes, looking more annoyed than worried. She raised only her left arm, and pointed it towards Autumn. Immediately, he felt as if someone had kicked him hard in the chest, for he fell backwards onto the floor, the wind knocked out of his lungs. The hell?! He tried to get back up, but found it impossible to move anything other than his eyes. Beside him, Garvey too joined him on the floor, held down by forces unseen.

Autumn could do nothing but watch as the intruder knelt down between them, took their keys, and then proceeded towards the back of the room. He tried again to pull himself back onto his feet, or at least pick his gun up from where it had clattered to the floor, but to no avail. The intruder, meanwhile, pulled the two flags aside to reveal an enormous steel door, dominating the entire rear wall of the bunker, like that you might find on a bank vault. The number "101" was painted across the front of it in large, stenciled lettering.

All told, some fifty tons of concrete and steel hung on hinges, locked in place by 24 bolts, each individually exuding a thousand pounds of pressure. The entire system, as well as the thick walls, ceilings, and floors of reinforced concrete around them, and the hundred meters or so separating them from the ground level, were all designed and built to keep this place protected, even in the event of a direct nuclear strike targeted at the Pentagon. The vault door's locking mechanism itself employed a two-step verification process – first, two separate keys that had to be turned at the same time, like for the launch of an ICBM, followed by a ten-digit passcode that was regularly changed, and that even Autumn himself wasn't privy to. And that was just for opening the door, never mind disabling the alarm.

Their intruder didn't seem all too bothered about the alarm, her attention solely on prying the door open. The two key-ports were located on either side of the vault door, far enough apart that the operation always required two men. She inserted both keys one by one, and then, before Autumn's bewildered eyes, both keys turned on their own at the same time. As for the passcode, there were trillions of possible combinations, so the intruder didn't even bother trying; instead, she grabbed the keypad, and ripped it out of the wall, exposing a nest of wiring behind it. Autumn could only look on as she fiddled around with the wiring for at least another few minutes or so, and then he heard the hiss of air escaping, followed by the collective clunk of 24 heavy steel bolts being withdrawn, and then finally, a low rumble, as the massive vault door began to slowly creak open. Warning lights began to flash, and an alarm klaxon screeched.

"ATTENTION!" boomed a prerecorded voice, "ATTENTION! WE HAVE AN UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY!"

The intruder didn't wait for the door to open fully; once the vault had opened just a foot or so, she grabbed the keys and slipped inside. She must have found the second command console on the inside, for a second later the enormous door ground to a halt, and then began to close and lock again, sealing the mysterious woman within.

The moment the vault thudded shut again, whatever force it was that had been holding Autumn and Garvey down immediately ceased. "God damn it!" he swore, struggling to get back on his feet, his head still spinning from whatever... that was. "The fuck just happened?!"

"Sir, did you see those... those ears?" piped up Garvey, next to him, "she looked like a frikkin' Vulcan! Do you think she... mind tricked us?"

"That's Jedi who do that, not Vulcans, you idiot," scolded Autumn, "but beside that, we have an intruder!"

"Do you think she's the enemy spy they were warning about?" asked Garvey. His face suddenly lit up. "We've got her trapped! There's no other way in or out of the vault! We just need to engage the backup locking system and..."

And just then, the front entrance to the bunker opened again, and in walked a man in a suit.

"Mr. President?!" said Garvey, blinking in disbelief, lowering his gun.

There stood the President himself in the entrance of the bunker, looking annoyed.

He began shouting and making what sounded like orders at the two of them, gesticulating wildly towards the vault door; it seemed that he wanted them to open it, though what he said exactly was utter nonsense, only a handful of words and phrases being recognizable in the English language (and in any case they couldn't, not without the keys). Autumn was confused, it was like the old man had Alzheimer's or was suffering a stroke or something. Why would the Pres himself be here? And where were his bodyguards?

"Wait a minute," muttered Autumn. Without a second thought, he aimed his gun at the president and fired.

In front of him, the alleged president seemed to notice and performed a backflip to dodge the bullet that was way out of league for the old man. And then, sure enough, his or her or its face began to morph and warp, revealing a skull-like mask with glowing eyes and a single long braid of blonde hair protruding from its back. Shit. Well, at least things now made slightly more sense.

Autumn and Garvey stood their ground and opened fire, but they didn't last very long. In the end, the big locked vault door behind them proved to be a far bigger impediment to the Assassin's progress than either of them.

The Vault.

Adora could not help but to gaze around her in curiosity. A vast underground warehouse surrounded her, blaring floodlights mounted on concrete pillars or hanging down from steel rafters above while warning lights flashed, illuminating rows upon rows of hundreds of neatly stacked wooden crates and steel shipping containers. On the outside, they might have appeared plain and unassuming to the naked eye, though she knew better, could sense this whole chamber was very much alive. There were powerful and dangerous items resting inside some of those boxes...

Her mind focused on one such container to her immediate left, one bristling with warp energy. She took several cautious steps towards it. Could this be it? Black stenciled lettering sprayed upon the side of the box read:

CLASSIFIED:
Specimen No. 9906753.
Cairo, Egypt. 1936.
DO NOT OPEN.

No, she could tell, from the date and from her own senses probing its contents, that whatever was in that box was most definitely not what she was looking for. She moved on, while lights continued to flash and the loudspeakers continued to wail. "ATTENTION! ATTENTION! WE HAVE AN UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY!"

She paused to cough and gasp for air. The atmosphere inside the vault must have been artificially climate-controlled to have a higher concentration of nitrogen than usual – this was probably done to assist long-term preservation and fire suppression, but also to serve as an extra layer of security, guaranteeing that no ordinary Human could loiter here for long without appropriate breathing apparatus. Adora considered herself far above any Human (with one and only one notable exception), and even she was starting to feel a little light-headed – probably not from hypoxia alone, but from a cumulative of everything: fatigue, blood-loss, not to mention the tiny residues of the poison still lingering in her veins...

Her senses alerted her to a new presence in the room with her, something alive and not too far behind her. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Adora quickened her pace.

There. Up ahead of her. From this distance, her weary eyes could just make out the number and date stenciled on the side of it. Roswell, New Mexico. 1947. That must be it. She limped up to the box, fast as her legs could carry her. Yes, this was it, she could feel it. Without wasting a second more, she dug her nails into the side, and, with whatever strength she had left, pulled. The top of the crate broke off, and then she plunged her hand into the breach and found...

Not too far behind...

D'halia dashed along the top of a row of steel shipping containers. This place around her - it must be some kind of repository where the natives kept all manner of secrets and buried treasures hidden, and for good reason, for she could already get a sense of just what kind of heresies lay stored within these walls. Inquisitor Tarkien would have to be notified of this – once she was done with the witch.

As much as she hated to admit it, she had to give the natives some credit. They were primitively-armed and equipped, but they were learning quickly, and they fought bravely – even if it was in the service of a Xenos. She had lost precious few minutes having to stop to patch up her injuries again after that second firefight.

And she had lost further time still cutting through the entrance to this secret lair. What a task that had been; the blast door was evidently designed to withstand even if a regular atomic device were to be detonated right on the surface above. There was little in the material universe that could stop a Phase Sword, but there had still been plenty of door to cut through.

Her sensors alerted her to movement a few hundred feet ahead of her. D'halia smiled. Her target was trapped, cornered. She dashed along the tops of the containers until she reached the end of this row, and looked down. Below, she could see the Xenos witch there, reduced to a walking wreck, a shadow of its former self, cowering in the darkness. Now would be the moment to put it out of its misery for good. Without further ado, D'halia leapt into the air, sword raised high.

Time seemed to stand still as she sailed through the air. In front of her, the pathetic creature must have been made aware of her presence, because it turned around immediately to face her, heaving something big and heavy out of the box next to it in the process. In the blink of an eye, D'halia beheld an enormous sword – a long blade of shimmering and constantly changing colors of white and gold and red, elaborate and alien runes and patterns carved into it, a large and brightly glowing azure jewel set into its hilt. And she beheld the Xenos' face, its expression brave and defiant to the end, as it took a step forward, raising the blade in front of her...

CLANG!

The two swords connected, locked, and froze in mid-air. Sparks of eldritch energies, some bright and colorful, others dark like black lightning, fizzled and crackled and flew everywhere, accompanied by a piercing screaming through the warp.

D'halia Qwen'zel was a trained and experienced operative of the Officio Assassinorum, had served just over thirty standard Terra years and in that time had undertaken hundreds of missions, had killed everything from traitorous generals to Daemons to others of this Xenos witch's ilk. As such, there was little in this universe that could genuinely surprise her. But this was one of them. What... what... what in this Emperor forsaken universe could block a Phase Blade?

This was the question still burning through her mind when her opponent, taking advantage of her momentary confusion, raised a leg and kicked her – and with such force too that she went flying, hitting the ground some thirty feet away.

D'halia, nimble like a cat, landed on both feet. When she looked back, she could see the Xenos witch standing there, rising to its full height. Clutching its sword tightly with both hands, it thrust it straight up towards the ceiling, and spoke words in a language D'halia could not identify – this must have been some fell ancient tongue of its people, one not used for thousands of years.

Whatever the witch said, arcs of lightning began cascading around it, shooting out from the sword (or into it, it was hard to see exactly); D'halia tried to rush back at her opponent, but could not, for the lightning seemed to form an impenetrable, if only momentary, shield around it. Meanwhile, above it, several of the primitive lighting fixtures hanging down from the ceiling began to glow brighter and brighter and then shattered, showering shards of glass everywhere.

Elsewhere, she noticed several other wooden crates explode into splinters, whatever was contained within them seemingly having come to life and now hurtling through the air. D'halia had to act swiftly on her toes, ducking and dodging just to avoid getting hit, though out of the corner of her vision, she did notice one of the mystery objects strike the witch and begin wrapping itself around it.

And when the lightning finally dispersed, she saw the Xenos witch striding slowly towards her, except now it covered head to toe in polished dark blue armor lined with whitish gold; a cape unfurled behind it, fluttering as if there were an indoor breeze. Its pathetic face was now concealed behind an elaborate but expressionless winged helmet, broken up by two glowing red eye-slits. The witch clutched its sword in its right hand, dragging it along the floor, the cement cracking and sparking wherever the blade touched it, while its left hand glowed and buzzed with warp energy.

"You poisoned me," it spoke, in a mildly annoyed tone (and yes, its speech was accompanied by that familiar reverberation that D'halia absolutely despised).

Undaunted, D'halia adopted a fighting posture and raised her own sword to meet this oncoming threat. "Bring it on, Xenos whore!" she spat, and charged.

Writer's End-Notes: just like Karl, Adora is a character who often has psychic visions, some of which can be quite abstract. Since several readers wrote to me expressing confusion and requesting clarification, I thought I'd include this brief summary of the flashbacks seen in this chapter and the previous one (though feel free to ignore this summary if you want to preserve their "mystery"). Here are the scenes:

(1) Long ago, Adora is on her homeworld, the Crone World of Druidia, where she stands trial for a crime that is yet to be revealed. Her alleged victim is a high-ranking Eldar noble, Shaha Gaathon.

(2) Years later, Adora, having escaped imprisonment on Druidia, is leading a band of renegade Eldar (including her Gyrinx, Kringer) on some quest across the galaxy. They arrive in orbit over Earth.

(3) For reasons as yet unknown, their spaceship crashes on Earth with Adora as the only survivor (revealed by the clues in this chapter to have been the Roswell Crash).

(4) Adora, having adopted the disguise and false identity of "Adrienne Kovacs", is living on Earth among Humans. She despises Humanity, but she's alone, isolated, and stranded here, so she has no choice but to adapt and make the best of things. The year is 1973, and the man she's watching on television is Richard Nixon.

(5) Adora has captured a time-traveling Ordo Chronos agent from the future. She tortures him for information about the future, about the Imperium, the Inquisition, the fate of the Eldar, everything. She's not going to like what she hears.