Chapter 2

Carl stepped out of the small cafeteria and walked out the back door, into the open. He stared at the dumpster to his left and then turned his back to it, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it and as he inhaled, feeling the warm tendrils of smoke curl into his lungs, he eagerly anticipated the calming lull of the nicotine as it took effect on his frayed nerves and tried to keep his thoughts from wandering towards his conversation with Ruth. It didn't take.

"Because, I don't know, you're different from the others..."

"Come on, Carl," he told himself aloud. "Get a grip. It's just work. It's a job. Put it on the backburner – shift's gonna be over in a few hours."

You don't seriously believe they're helping these kids, do you? I mean, you've gotta be one dumb fuck to be taken in by that.

"I didn't sign up for this," he said aloud and to no one in particular. "I've got a mom on dialysis and a sister and nephew to support. Family first. Everything else...later."

Carl flipped through Adele's note book, then thwacked it repeatedly against his palm in absent-minded frustration.

You're not just a gear in the system anymore. You bit into the apple, Carl. And now you know. And now you're accountable. Hope you're looking forward to a good night's sleep.

"Shit." he muttered aloud. He yanked the half-burnt cigarette out of his mouth and threw it onto the ground. He stepped on it hard, extinguishing it.

He turned around and made his way back into the building.

5 days later

A voice on the small intercom chirped to life, and the man approached it with a handful of papers.

"Doctor Fenix? There's an orderly here to see you," it said.

He put his papers down on his desk and spoke back into the communications device. "Ah hell. Not now, Kelly. I've got a lot of paperwork here that needs to be turned in first thing Monday. Besides, tell him to send in his complaints to HR. I can't do anything about it anyway."

"He says it's a private matter, doctor. He's not going to discuss it with HR." replied the voice.

"Doesn't he have a shrink? A priest?" asked Fenix, hopefully.

"Uh...I don't know, Doctor."

He sighed. Realizing that the back-and-forth banter only served to waste more time, he relented. "Alright. Send him in."

Carl walked into the room tentatively. His apprehensions did not go by unnoticed by the older man, who gestured for Carl to take a seat on a sofa against the wall. His visitor did so, placing his hands on his lap.

"You want something to drink? I have some scotch..." offered Fenix, believing that perhaps a little alcohol would put the man at ease. The younger man shook his head, turning down the offer. Fenix raised his eyebrows questioningly and smiled. "I'm not going to bite, son. What's on your mind?"

"It's not you, doc. Well, I suppose in a way it is. I can't put what I'm about to ask you in a nicer way, but I need to know something. Is what I say going to stay within this room? Because if it isn't, I need to know now." Great opening. Why would someone, who couldn't be trusted to begin with, tell the truth in the first place?

Fenix dragged a chair towards the orderly and took his seat opposite him. It was upholstered in rich maroon leather. It was the chair that helped him contemplate...well, nearly everything. "The receptionist said your name is Carl Riviera, right? Can I call you Carl?" The other man nodded. "Now I don't know the nature of what you're about to tell me, Carl, but if it has anything to do with the patients, that would be something you would want to inform Dr. Niles Samson about. You see – not many of our staff are aware of this, save for Dr. Samson and some others – but I'm resigning from my post. As of a month from now, I'm not going to be working here anymore."

"That's why it has to be you, doctor."

Fenix shook his head, perplexed. "Me? For what? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Are you going to repeat what I'm about to say to anyone else? I need to know." insisted Carl.

Fenix paused then closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully and tiredly. "I don't see how I'm better than anyone else here, but...yes, you have my word. Unless this information threatens anyone's life, then it will not leave this room."

"What about your receptionist?" questioned Carl nervously. "She knows I came into talk to you."

Paranoid sort, wasn't he? Was he a user? Possible but unlikely. HR had performed rigorous background checks on all their employees; from their lead scientists down to the janitors. Whatever the case, don't agree to anything until you know everything. Earn his confidence. "Kelly can be trusted. And I won't tell her what we talked about anyway. We can always just make something up. But what's all this about? You caught me at a particularly stressful time...there's a lot of data I need to organize for the doctor who's replacing me. Is what you have to tell me so important?"

Carl nodded. He'd thought a lot about what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. His envisioning and planning came at the cost of a lot of sleep, and his nerves were not the better for it. He knew about Adam Fenix; the other nurses and orderlies spoke well of him. But Carl had needed more reassurance than what congeniality and modesty had to offer. He needed loyalty and he needed someone who was willing to sacrifice. Their work, well-being, safety and their way of life – these were but a few chips that they would have to place on the table.

The man he had visualized depending on was certainly not the one he had decided to choose. But things hardly ever work out as planned, and perhaps his choice would serve to fool others, just as it had fooled him.

He had observed Adam Fenix before – and what he had mistaken for lethargy and inattentiveness, he had now inferred to be pangs of conscience. The doctor no longer administered the prescribed medication to patients himself. He would skip scheduled visits, misplace medical files, and in one instance had even written in incorrect – but markedly reduced – dosages for the terminally ill patients.

No reputable doctor would play his hand so carelessly, unless of course, he had wanted to lose. And Adam Fenix was no blockheaded simpleton. Carl had then concluded that if the man had indeed felt some remorse, an abrupt resignation resulting from that guilt would come under considerable scrutiny and suspicion. He had to be shrewd about it – there was no other alternative. The lack of diligence to his work and his patients was but an act of a forgetful old man. Doctor Fenix was not a team-player anymore, and he wasn't to blame. The best thing for him now was to resign himself to retirement; give himself a dignified exit. Or that was what his colleagues were made to believe. His charade was working well.

Of course, Carl's inferences could have been dreadfully wrong. After all, if he – a lowly orderly could figure it out – so could the guys in white coats; the ones with the medical residencies and the numerous degrees. The only thing that separated them from him, and possible Doctor Fenix, was a conscience. If your mind hasn't been trained to care for others for decades on end, then why start now?

Then there was the possibility that Fenix wouldn't go for it. He could present his case to the good doctor only to have him run back to his superiors with this traitorous news. But the past few days of moping and strategizing had finally broken Carl's threshold of tolerance, and he had to operate on his instincts or throw in the towel entirely.

There was nothing else for it, he guessed. Well, here goes, he told himself.

"The patients...the kids here," he began, "they're being tested on."

"Of course they are. They're terminally ill. We're here to fix the problem and find a cure; it's been New Hope's dream to save the children first and win the war later." It sounded official. Rehearsed.

Carl noted that the doctor's voice lacked conviction. The younger man seized this possibility and continued. "What I mean to say is...the people who started this research – and I don't mean to insinuate that you began it, although you have to admit that both you and I have helped keep the shop running – were never looking for a cure. They're using the children here as instruments. Or maybe they're just refining them to be what they want them to be. Do you see what I mean?"

Adam Fenix stood unnaturally still. It was as if he was dealt a hefty blow. The others feel it too, he realized. Well, some of them anyway. He had believed that leaving this place to its demise – and he was sure that it would come – would close the book on what he had done. But that wasn't enough, apparently. The coming of this orderly seemed to be an advent of some larger conscience. As if fate was extending him an opportunity to fix things, even if it seemed a little too late.

"Yes, I understand." he answered quietly.

"You do? I mean...that's good. It's good. I've been trying – ever since I started work here – to make out what the hell happened to these kids. I've never seen anything like it before. It makes stage IV cancer look like a common cold, you know? I thought it was some kind of hybrid virus. But most viruses are contagious; and none of us ever got sick. Never got what they had, I mean. You guys didn't take any precautions to stop us from catching it. If it was just the immunity problems like lung infections and swollen joints, I could accept some bullshit story of a mutated...something. But the random violence – I don't see and I can't see how it fits in. One of the doctors tried to tell me the kids were having epileptic seizures. I told him, come on, doc, I've been in this business for twelve years now. I know an epileptic seizure when I see one. And this ain't no muscle spasm. He looked right back at me and told me to just do my job and leave the diagnosing to them.

"Doc, those kids are dangerous. About couple weeks ago, one of them beat me unconscious. I weigh a hundred and eighty pounds, and this kid, she weighs ninety. I work out whenever I get the chance. She's bed-ridden for a good portion of the day, heck, a good portion of her life. Now you tell me that there's nothing weird about that."

"What are you saying, Carl?" asked Fenix, with hesitance. "You want to lock these kids up within padded walls?"

Carl leaned forward. "No. I want to help them."

"Why?"

"Because I have evidence that whatever shit is being done to them, is being done willfully and deliberately. They might be doing testing here, but these tests ain't curing them. We have no right to – if you'll pardon my language – fuck with their lives."

"Where'd you get the evidence from?"

"Adele. One of the patients who died earlier. She kept a journal detailing every symptom, every anomaly. I've read it. I have it."

"She could be hallucinating – some of the stuff we gave them are pretty strong sedatives." fumbled Fenix.

"You and I both know that's bullshit. And you know what?" He leaned back in his sit and crossed his arms. "I think you know. Maybe you didn't know all along, but you sure as hell know now. That's why you're quitting."

Fenix inhaled deeply. "Okay. Say you're right. I'm not saying that you are, but let's go hypothetical here. What can I do, Carl? I don't pull the strings. I can't tell Dr. Samson what to do – I can't stop the research. The subjects here have been here for all their lives."

"Subjects?" Is that all they are to you?" Carl spat back.

"Of course not, but I can't snap my fingers together and cure them."

"No. No, you can't. But you could help them get out. There have got to be at least twenty of them being tortured. And I'm certain that now at least one of them is aware that there is no cure, no hope for something better."

Fenix rose from his seat. He walked slowly to his desk and absently straightened a stack of papers lying on it. What was the point of doing something now, anyway? We've already wrought the damage, he thought. And he wasn't the man for this kind of job. Glancing to the right side of his desk, he studied the back of the photo frame of him and his son. He turned it so as to face him, and his shoulders drooped.

"What did they do to them?" came out Carl's voice from behind him.

"Son," breathed out Fenix, "you really don't want to know. In fact, it would be better for you if you didn't. I can tell you though, that all of those children are not going to make it this year. We can't save them."

"Okay." acknowledged Carl. If their history had to be kept in the dark for the sake of their future, then so be it. And if some of them would not pull through, then that was all the more reason to save the rest. "If what was done can't be undone, then we have to do what we can for those that remain."

"It's more complicated than that. They're the only ones who're responding positively to the treatment."

"So what?"

"So...everyone is going to be focusing on them. They'll be watched more often than not. There will be more tests, more observations. We can't just say we're taking them to go to the bathroom and then make a break for it!" responded Fenix, frustrated.

"Then what do you want to do, Doc?"

"We have to point them in another direction. We have to show them what they want to see." replied Fenix. Schemes and strategies began to come to life and orient themselves in his mind. He sat back down. "But first," he began, "I need to know everything recorded in that journal. Our patients – children though they may be – are unstable and violent. We need to know what we're going up against on both sides. If we can't save the kids from themselves, then this whole plan goes up in smoke."

Carl rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. "Okay. Okay." He held it up to the good doctor and asked, "S'alright if I smoke in here?"

Circa 3043

15 years after E-Day

He moves about the Locust Palace – one of the many homes to the locust Queen – with considerable ease. He knows where he came from and he knows where it is he's going to. Four drones guarding the entrance to an antechamber acknowledge his arrival and they step aside. He is a stark contrast to the other occupants here; his face is pale and his skin is smooth. Theirs is a mottled gray, the epidermis uneven and tough – like leather.

He smiles at them as he walks by, and they return the gesture with nods. The antechamber could be called cavernous but it is certainly no cave. The ceilings and pillars display ornate engravings; rich in texture and symbolic in nature. He has little or no concept of the allegoric nature of the carvings, and it makes him all the more eager to discover their origins. But the Queen, let alone the locusts, does not fully trust him yet. They have had many a conversation about battles and wars; the battle at Ephyra is brought up frequently, but when thoughts turn to history and culture, she grows distant and a little impatient.

This time he suspects that she will perhaps talk with him about their previous conversation. The Queen detests the imulsion that surrounds her people and her land. He, on the other hand, does not. He is aware of the dangers, but he has always been successful at quelling the response of fear to ignorance. But she was...

He pauses in mid-thought, as the Queen approaches him through a side entrance, escorted by one of her High Priests and a member of the elite guards, the one she calls Skorge. In the length of time that he has known her, Skorge was a frequent companion – not in the friendly sense of the word, but more as a protective symbol – and yet, he never participates in any discourse with them. Perhaps he doesn't need to, he realizes.

"Adam," speaks the Queen, addressing him with the utmost composure.

"Your highness." Adam bows, before the Queen gestures for him to arise.

"I do not feel like sitting down today." The tough tendrils emerging from her spine move about slowly in the air, each one akin to a cat twirling its tail. "Would you like to walk with me?"

"It would be my pleasure," he responds.

"Good. I would like to hear about your son today, Adam. He intrigues me. If he is anything like his father, then he would have my utmost respect."

Adam nods and moves beside her. They begin to walk, side by side, towards the doorway in the room.

Orsorum (Orsa) Island

Present

He woke from slumber later than he would have liked, given the nature of his dream, and breathed out slowly. He tried to tell himself that dreams were the stuff of nonsense, that his subconscious was probably working overtime. But their exchange with the Queen back at Nexus so many weeks ago had left him with uneasy and unanswered questions. Her referral to him being Adam Fenix's son unnerved him. Furthermore, and more frightening, was the manner in which she had spoken of his father. Was that respect in her voice, he wondered?

He shook his head, still drowsy.

Consciousness brought with it a pounding headache, and a dry feeling at the back of his throat. He swung his legs over the side of the rickety cot and held his head in his hands. It felt like morning.

He never did like looking at the time – over the years and the battles, keeping track of ticking minutes and hours only counted for something if there was a goal to be reached. But in between, it never seemed to matter that much. A lot of things didn't seem to matter that much. War was war and to analyze it and dissect it could leave one feeling breathless and a little crazy, to say the least.

The dead were the lucky ones, anyway.

"Marcus?" called out a familiar voice from outside the room. "You up?"

"Am now."

His friend came into the room, wiping his wet face on a small towel. "They're asking us to do some recon tonight. You up for it?"

"Ah hell, Dom, doesn't really matter if I am or I'm not, does it?"

Dom smiled and threw the towel onto his own bed. "No, guess not."

Marcus rose from his bunk and pulled out his boots from underneath it. "Any reason why they want us this time? Can't Hoffman get some others to handle it?"

His friend shrugged. "I've learned that asking questions never really puts me at ease anymore. Least of all from Hoffman. All I know is, we have two washed-up reavers on the south beach. I guess he thinks that they're starting to up the ante now – sending in reavers. Boats are probably more of a target – trying to get to us by air is probably their next move."

Marcus shook his head. "Fucking locusts." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension within. "Dumb as hell, but they're persistent. I'll give 'em that."

Dom rifled through his duffel bag, pulling out some of his body armor – a tattered yet usable Kevlar vest, and started to adjust the blade plates inside. "Look at it this way. We're somewhere that's hard to touch. One way in and one way out. At least this way we can see them coming."

"I don't enjoy being cornered." responded Marcus. "That's all."

"Who does? But we don't have much of a choice. To be frank, man, I think this idea of Prescott's was pretty good."

"Prescott didn't think this one up, Dom." interrupted Marcus. "He's hasn't got the chops to think up alternate plans unless he's up for re-election – and that won't be anytime soon. It was a fallback option the COG must have thought up years ago. Prescott just got handed the uniform and baton from brass that have long since died, and now he's just in the position to take credit for it."

Dom sighed and smiled. His friend's disdain for politics and the people who bent to its manipulations were beneath his contempt, and he wasn't afraid to voice it. Dom, on the other hand, was more or less immune to political metamorphoses. "Prescott or not, without this island to go to we'd be screwed. Admit it. I mean, where would we go?"

"Elingrad is still standing." muttered Marcus, unwilling to concede so easily.

"The place is a ghost town. And there, we gotta worry about emergence holes, aerial attacks...it would be Jacinto all over again. No, it would be worse," corrected Dom, "They could sink Elingrad within a day."

Marcus grunted and stood up, stretching his arms. "Orsa is no picnic either."

Dom pulled out another set of armor and threw it towards his companion. "But it's the only picnic we can have. And I don't know about you, but I'll take it."

Marcus began to strap on his armor and turned to Dom, smiling and relenting for the first time that day. "I never did like settling for less, but I guess it'll have to do. This isn't paradise island, but it's been a long time since I've been able to sleep for eight hours straight." He amicably thumped his comrade on the back. "Come on, Dom, let's go grab something to eat before we head out."

By the time they reached the southern tip of the island, dusk had settled into night. It was cloudless, however, allowing for the moonlight to illuminate paths before them. The flora on the island was a refreshing change from the decrepit and derelict buildings of Jacinto or Montevado. There were no sunken cities, no sporadic fires, no emergence holes, no stranded camps, nothing that could attest to the fact that they had been engaged in a long and bitter war. The island itself seemed like a sanctuary of sorts, a remnant of peace that existed only in dreams.

The two soldiers, driving along in silence, took in this tranquility with quiet unease. It was difficult to attune themselves to it, seeing as how it was such a contrast from the turmoil they had been immersed in on the mainland.

Dom felt his muscles tighten whenever something moved, and he frequently caught himself glancing down at his radar screen to ascertain whether they were in danger or not. And each time he did so, he breathed out in relief. It was another false alarm.

His anxieties did not escape his companion, who – without grinning but with humour in his voice – spoke and pointed in an arbitrary direction. "You might want to get out your shotgun now. I thought I saw a raccoon to our right."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it." he said in resignation.

"Just relax, will ya?" encouraged Marcus. "You were singing Orsa's praises all this morning. And now that you're out and about, you're jumping at rats and squirrels."

"Hey, you don't look so thrilled yourself," Dom nodded over at him.

Marcus grunted in response. True, he did feel as if this little peninsula was destined to be another casualty of war, but it wasn't that which unnerved him the most. He felt cut off, herded into a corner. Sooner or later, the Locusts would discover their position. And then the situation would present itself as a terrific chance for the Queen to win this war once and for all. Everyone in one place at one time.

A hundred birds. One rock.

He was dead certain that she would like that.

Marcus turned right along the beaten path and tried to set his concerns aside. At least for the moment, he consoled himself, we only have two dead reavers. It was a step-down from the four damaged boats that had washed ashore three weeks ago. And anyway –

"Can reavers make it this far?" questioned Dom suddenly.

Marcus, disturbed from his sullen reverie, asked, "What?"

"How do you think the reavers made it all the way here? It's gotta be a hell of a long haul from Jacinto. Or Nexus even."

Marcus shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe they have stopover flights."

"Yeah," chuckled Dom, "At least the Locusts must be getting some good use out of their frequent flier miles." He wiped some mud off the radar. "But seriously though, how can they?"

"I don't think they could. That's why they're dead on the beach."

"Does this mean that they know where we are?"

"You mean: does the Queen know where we are," corrected Marcus.

"You don't seriously think she survived that?" he asked, incredulous.

"She hauled ass out of Nexus fast, Dom. Whether it was in their plans to sink Jacinto or not, she had no intentions of going down with the ship. You take my word for it – she's as alive as you and me."

Dom found it hard to resign himself to this disturbing idea. But he realized that to dismiss the thought entirely would be naive. "Okay. So supposing she's still in charge, do you think she knows where we're at?"

Marcus shook his head. "Nah. Believe me, if she knew, she'd come at us full force. And she wouldn't be wasting any time."

"Kinda dumb, though, dontcha think?"

"How?"

"If we flooded the hollow, you'd think that she would give some thought before sending out her reavers and soldiers – knowing that a lot of them probably won't make it back." wondered Dom.

"Which can only mean one thing – she's either pretty frantic about finding us or we only made a little dent in their plans by flooding the hollow."

Dom frowned. He would hate to believe the latter. Jacinto was a costly price to pay, even if they eradicated a good portion of the Locusts. But if the COG were to discover that their hordes had hardly been diminished, all that they had thought they knew about the Locusts would be proven to be false. And all their theorizing would be ripped apart like a straw hut in a hurricane.

It was painful just thinking about it.

"Man, I just hope she's desperate. Least that way, maybe she'll trip up." he concluded.

"I hope so too, Dom." responded Marcus, as he hit the gas harder and drove into the foliage.

"Lovely night for a stroll." Marcus quipped, a scowl on his face and boltok pistol in hand.

And it was indeed. The moon seemed more radiant than ever, its silvery light dancing off of the water's surface. The gentle swishing sounds of the waves were rhythmic and soothing. That, coupled with the aroma of distinct salt-tinged air, permeated their senses in a manner through which they had forgotten they possessed.

For a split second, Dom's memory brought back the acrid smell of charred bodies to the surface, and he hastily submerged this venomous recollection. Why is it, he wondered, that he couldn't enjoy brief moments of peaceful solitude without such thoughts? Was this just another idiosyncrasy that he should chalk up to human nature? He couldn't quite respond to such musings, so he continued walking down the stretch of shore, staring up ahead into the distance, and tried to think of anything else.

"Command, are you there? This is Delta." came out the gravel-like voice beside him, a little quieter than usual.

"Affirmative," came out the tinny voice of the dispatcher.

A small emotion within Marcus had hoped to hear the familiar voice of his friend and guide, Anya Stroud. She had been a constant throughout their missions; the planting of the lightmass bomb and the sinking of Jacinto. Despite the fact that she was physically absent during their battles – big and small – there was a certain strength about so simple a connection, something he realized that he had taken for granted all the while. He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed to note that she wasn't on the other end this time.

"We're at the site. You got a bead on our location?" he said, eager to get this little excursion over with.

"Affirmative, Sergeant. You want to head about two clicks due...north-east of you. Once you find them, radio in and let us know what you find. Command out."

Dom, who had paused walking, turned around. "Wish they let us have JACK. I'm about done with having to write reports in triplicate. Makes me feel like I have a desk job."

"Hey, I'd take a desk job over what we do," noted Marcus, as they proceeded to pace forward towards their destination.

Dom laughed, clearly entertained at the idea. "Yeah right! I'd like to see you at it; going nine to five."

"We'll never know now though, will we?"

Dom shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe a month from now every Locust will die from skin cancer and us COGs will go into retirement."

Marcus' face cracked a smile. "Don't have faith that we can pull it off ourselves?" he asked. "Think we'll have to wait for tumours to finish them off?"

"That...or some kind of plague specific to Locusts." responded Dom, very aware of the possible irony of his statement. "If Locust numbers haven't been decimated by now, I think we're screwed."

Marcus glanced at his friend. "You going pessimistic on me?"

"No…I'm going realistic. This place – maybe it only delays the inevitable, know what I mean?" Dom cast his eyes down, some truths were too hard to stomach. "But...we do what we can do, right?"

His companion remained silent. He figured that if the act of consolation felt contrived, then more often than not, they were contrived. And then it was better just to keep his trap shut.

Even through the soft glow of the moonlight, the large, dark humps weren't quite discernible. The mass – which lay several yards away – gave off a distorted silhouette; it was uneven and unearthly. But most importantly, Marcus reminded himself, it remained unmoving, and hopefully – quite dead.

Upon closer inspection, the pair noted the splayed-out legs and tendrils of the huge beasts, their face shields in place, but armor absent. But it was difficult to see anything in this light, so Marcus decided that he ought to start searching for the more obvious and accessible clues amongst the bodies.

"You see anything alive under them?" he asked.

Dom pulled out a small thermal sensor from his bag and bent over, running the device alongside the body closest to him. With negative results from the first, he began a similar procedure on the second. A few minutes later, he looked back up at his companion and shook his head.

"I don't see anything here, either," muttered Marcus.

"Armor's missing." noted Dom. "Looks like they had no carry-on luggage either," he said, pointing at the absence of weaponry of any type.

Marcus set his jaw tightly. "These are scouts. I'd bet my life on it."

Dom paused, the gears of thought running furiously in his mind. Arriving at a conclusion he wasn't sure he liked, he spoke nonetheless. "Scouts are supposed to report in, aren't they?"

"Yeah..." began Marcus, starting to see what his friend what getting at.

"Then they should have homing devices," finished Dom.

"Yeah."

Dom crinkled his forehead and swore. He suddenly turned to his friend, hopeful. A few weeks before, some torn up gunboats – empty and passenger-less – had washed up ashore. If no devices were on board, then there was a solid chance that they would find nothing here either. "Did we find anything on the boats that came in a couple weeks back?"

"No. But the mines got to the boats before we could. Whatever homing beacons were strapped onto 'em got blown to bits."

Dom frowned and sat on his haunches to get a closer look at the face plates on one of the reavers. Marcus stared at one in turn, and then came over to his friend's side. "Could be anywhere. Hell, it could be in their gut for all we know."

Dom scrunched his face in disgust. "I thought these things smell bad on the outside..." he began.

"...Nothing for it, Dom. We gotta cut 'em open. I'm gonna call it in first."

As Dom stood up and groaned, dreading the loathsome task before them, Marcus started speaking into the radio strapped to his shoulder. Command didn't seem nonplussed about it – but then again, he thought – they weren't going to be the ones doing the slicing and dicing. After a few more questions, and much to his relief, however, they concluded that someone more able and knowledgeable about Locust and reaver anatomy would be sent in. On hearing the news, Dom's concerns were allayed and he cheered up considerably. He zipped his bag shut, and sat on the ground.

"You know, I heard that there's crabs in these waters," he said.

"You don't say." Marcus sat down on the sand.

"She loved crab," mused Dom, more to himself than to his companion.

Marcus said nothing, realizing that despite the closure Dom found on Maria's whereabouts, she was hardly the furthest thing on his mind. Recently, he'd noticed that Dom had difficulties speaking her name, and whenever she was the subject of conversation, it never lasted quite long and seemed more of personal reminiscing than anything else.

"Baird can't stand seafood, though. Especially crab." muttered Dom, predictably focusing their discourse onto another target. "Told me how he'd eaten stuffed crab a while back. We were holed up at this empty bar one time – behind a counter – we had Locusts closing in from one side, and a couple of bullets hit some glass behind us. And then he turns to me and tells me that he's allergic to crab meat. Told me that it makes him break out in hives – and then says seafood has too much mercury."

Marcus couldn't help but laugh.

Dom shook his head in disbelief, chuckling at the memory. "I told him that if he could single-handedly win this war, we'd start a campaign against seafood. And if he couldn't, he should just shut up and fight." He smiled again and looked out into the water, musing.

Moments like those – nightmarish though they seemed – were vivid. Sometimes nauseatingly so. But here...here, every intact object was an antithesis of its counterpart on the Locust-savaged mainland. The setting seemed so idyllic that it could only be a dream. That, or it was the calm center to the storm. He gazed at the horizon of the sea as they waited, every now and then looking about himself for the arrival of their locust-expert, but his eyes always returned to the tide before them.

"Dom," spoke Marcus after a while, disrupting their silence. "You see that?"

Imagining that the man command had sent down had arrived, he turned towards the tree-line behind them. But Marcus was pointing in the opposite direction, out towards the ocean, his gaze fixed on something in the waters. It took Dom a second or two to spot it, but by then it was closer, though hard to distinguish. A lump of something bobbed up and down awkwardly, carried towards them with the aid of the current.

Marcus didn't waste any time. "Wait here." he instructed, as he ran into the water. The waves sloshed up around his knee-high boots, and he reached and grasped the object dragging it along the wet sand up and back onto the drier shore.

Dom jogged over to him.

He turned the object onto his back, only to reveal the bloated body of a human, his face scarred beyond recognition. "Shit." muttered Marcus.

"One of ours?" asked Dom quietly.

"Don't think so." Marcus bent over the body, examining the corpse's attire carefully. His eyes caught sight of a wet rag tied tightly to the deceased man's right arm. He untied it with little difficulty and then held it up in the moonlight. "Recognize this?" he asked his comrade.

"Stranded..." mumbled Dom, perceiving the cloth to be something most stranded wore – signifying which group or leader they owed their allegiance to. He took the rag from Marcus, studying it closer. It was pale cream...or yellow. Yes, it was yellow, he decided. He'd seen it quite often, but that was a long time ago.

"It's Franklin." said Dom, handing it back, and then corrected himself. "One of Franklin's, I mean. Gotta be. I've seen his guys wear it."

"They're using the survivors to get to us." concluded Marcus. "How many do you think survived?" he asked the question his companion dreaded to put forth.

"I don't know."

"Shit. If there are more..."

"I know."

"Hoffman and Prescott aren't going to mount a rescue mission for 'em."

"They'll say it isn't worth the risk," agreed Dom. "You still wanna call it in?"

Marcus stared at the corpse for what seemed like minutes. Then finally, "Yeah. Let's call it in." He jerked his chin at the dead man's limp body. "Maybe this guy'll give 'em a decent enough reason for us to do some scouting of our own."

"Or maybe they'll bury him and tell us to shut up." countered Dom, if a little hopefully.

The corners of Marcus' mouth turned down. "We'll see."