This is probably the last chapter of Book I. It was short, but it was more of a introduction and synopsis than a true book, really. But I liked the format. Book II to follow soon. Oh yeah, I'm writing this with no pants on. Woo!

Disclaimer: I own Holt, Moss, and Borden. Calvin and whatnot belong to Bill Watterson.

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On the 800th day of his search, Holt was finally rewarded.

Holt had climbed over the first of a series of impossibly tall dunes, reaching over a thousand feet tall. Holt groaned and quickly scaled the first. From the top he realized he had reached the Range, as it was called from the travelers he remembered as a cub. Miniature mountains of sand that stretched along the desert in an impossibly long strand, reaching its dune fingers toward opposite horizons. It was only about a hundred across, but making it up one was a chore, and Holt recalled from the old travelers' tales is that many went into the Range and never came out, or if they did, they just weren't right. There was something odd about them, reeked of death or had an abnormality that people just didn't like. They would usually die afterwards. As Holt looked down his first perch, he already saw a littering of skulls and bones at the bottom of the dune.

Holt began to make his way down when, several dunes over, he saw a silhouette. Not an average silhouette neither. This shadow against the sun was cloaked, hooded, and nobody sane in the desert would be wearing a heavy cloak, let alone be in the Range. Holt had found Moss.

Holt leapt across, sprang with amazing might he had not known he possessed, and landed halfway down the next dune mountain. Instead of pausing to recoil from the sharp pains in his legs, he was up and sprinting again to the top, and then across, then up, the across. He hadn't even noticed when a mutant snake snapped at Holt and both of its heads had managed to clamp onto his leg momentarily.

When Holt made it over to the sixth dune, he saw the silhouette was indeed looming closer, was not a shadow that moved with him. Holt leapt onto the seventh, and then to the eight, and then to Moss's.

Holt, panting and wheezing like an elderly man, reached the top of the ninth dune, he looked into the face of Moss and saw, for a change, a benevolent smile.

Moss, a Dark Double of Moe, opposed his own Double's pleasant qualities and improved on the bad. Holt, from what he knew of Moe, could see Moe had a lot of hidden pleasant qualities. Moss was tall and lean, making him fast and agile, whereas Moe was a great lummox. Moss, although born at the same time of Moe, yet in a different world, looked to be at least 24 years old. Moe's age was pleasant as he was blissfully stupid as a kid. Moss was worlds more intelligent than the average man. Moe's train of thought had derailed a loooooong time ago. However, they both had hated Calvin with a fiery passion, and that was even more amplified in this world. What kept Moss from striking down Holt right now was a mystery to him.

"Rise, young tiger, I needn't waste my time to look down to you when I talk. If I am to talk to you, young Holt of the East, Second in Command of the Rebel Alliance, I would wish to talk as equals." Indeed their were equals, Moss a lesser to Borden, and Holt a lesser/equal to Calvin, but Moss had more power than Holt. Moss had magic, and that was more powerful than a couple of guns and claws. But Moss lacked one thing that Holt did have: a fiery passion to complete what he set out to do.

"I imagine you have sought after me for answers, tiger. Here, you will find some, and find others to questions you did not know you have." Moss smiled again, but Holt saw through him. Saw deep in those eyes, under that those thin eyebrows that Moe did not possess that he was planning something, that he would strike like the snake he was. He was like a man that wears to much of the fragrance cologne to cover up the sweat and dirt he carries on him.

"Why do you tell me this, when I plan on traveling back to the Alliance with the answers I have. Why betray Borden when the instant you give me those answers he will be here, and he will kill you? Why help Calvin?"

Holt thought he saw Moss's smile falter. "You did not think this was going to be easy, did you? I offer you a choice, tiger. Choose to leave with your life, no answers, and trek back to the Alliance all under a futile attempt. Or, listen to my answers, and then fall to my blade. Please choose, Holt."

Holt felt his tail twitch. "I'll take the answers." Moss smiled even wider, and this time there was nothing benevolent about it. "Excellent. Please, ask a question."

Holt sought deep into the back of his mind. At the beginning of his journey, he knew perfectly what he would ask Moss if he ever caught him, but in the last year it was in and out.

Remembering one, Holt asked "Is Borden still in Harlan?" In the Old Tongue, Harlan was "from the army-land." Harlan was where Borden's forces were mounting, and he was reportedly secluded in, preparing the Final Attack to scourge the land finally. Not that there was much of it left to destroy. In past years, it was speculated upon whether he still remained. "The whereabouts of Borden are this: everywhere and nowhere at once. He is the underside of the crow that circles over the fresh kill of a child. He is the monster under the bed in the opposite world. He is the voice in the back of your that finally tells you to do it, to jump over the ledge, that the world would be better without you anyway. Physically, Borden is still in Harlan."

Moss's smiled widened, and he seemed to concentrate more on Holt's eyes than anything, enough for Holt's hand to start reaching slowly for his pack.

"How many are there?" Moss smiled like an adult humoring the kid who claims he just saw a monster under his bed. "How many what?" Holt's hand had grabbed the leather strap that bound the ends of his pack and started to slowly, subtly undo them. "How many of the creatures, how many of the monstrosities that you plagued upon this land like locusts? How many is he planning in the Final Attack?" Moss's smile faltered again. Although it was no surprise that the monster attack had gone up in recent years, Borden (and Moss, apparently) did not guess that the Alliance would tie that and the destruction of their world together. "I'm afraid you little Alliance will have time dealing with the three million 'monstrosities,' as you called them, that we have waiting for our command. Although two-thirds are in the deserts, doing their duties their Master has called upon them to do, we have over a million waiting in Harlan."

The pack was undone. Holt could feel Moss's smile breaking him down. It was powerful Dark Magic that Borden had given him, as suddenly Holt didn't feel like reaching for the gun like he was, and he didn't feel like putting a bullet in each of Moss's eyes after getting his information.

"W-what is Kevin planning? The Alliance knows he's up to something, but we are not sure of what." Holt said with a slight air of delirium.

Moss's smiled turned into a bitter look of deep loathing, not for Holt, but for Kevin. It was no secret that Kevin was the real Second in Command, and was even more powerful than Borden, but he remained in his Third in Command spot. He was moving up steadily, and the Final Attack would be enough for Moss to get the boot.

"Kevin…is in the process of catching the little snot. He is constantly guarded by your Double, making it a chore to contact him. But he is indeed going to catch him, there is…no doubt there." he said, almost straining. Holt felt the Dark Magic wane in his hatred for Kevin.

"Well, Moss, believe it if you will, my task was but to find you for those three inquiries, and if you will excuse me, I will be-"

"Need you forget our little agreement, tiger? You will die for the Alliance, but they will have not the information. You made a fool's decision, tiger. A fool's decision!" Just Do It a , as a strip of paper Holt had found one day (obviously from the other world, but Holt had wondered what it was doing here) said, was enough to make him pull out the revolver and put a hole between Moss's eyes.

There was enough Dark Magic to keep his brains from exiting through the back of his head, but not enough to save him from intense pain. "Oh Bill, oh my Bill I've been shot, you shot me you stupid jerk off! Oh Bill, save me, save-"

Moss raised his hand and a ball of flame shot from the palm past Holt. He gathered his pack and turned down the hill. Another burst of flame to his right made Holt turn and shoot again. A miss. Moss raised both hands (one horrible stained with blood) and conjured a powerful Dark Magic spell. Had not for the green light that suddenly entranced over Moss and disintegrated him, Holt would be but another skeleton in this land of waste.

From the spot where Moss stood was a whisper of smoke that dissipated, leaving Holt blank for a moment. What happened?

His question was answered as from the sky came a familiar whirring and a familiar shape. A shining red disc descended from the clouds and settled on the top of the dune, facing Holt.

"`lo, Holt. I trust you got your answers before I…you know." The glass bubble that graced the top of the disc opened and out popped a familiar figure that, in another world, would be referred to as Spaceman Spiff. But in this world, Holt knew him as Stafford, a name given to him when he first appeared with his secrets and advanced ways. In the Old Tongue, Stafford was "from the riverbank landing place." Stafford had been found by a river years before the war in his magical flying disc. He was dressed upon in a flowing robe of light blue and the yellow to make a queen bee jealous. Graced upon his head was his spectacles that were fused into a single, rectangular monocle that conveyed Stafford's emotions, despite the fact you could never see his eyes. After demonstrating his wonderful magic, questions were asked of his origin. "No comment" was his answer.

"Indeed I did, Stafford. I hail you for your timed rescue. I fear I hadn't the bullets to face his wicked magic, like yours." Stafford smiled, humoring the tiger. He always suspected that Holt knew he was not a magician, that it was merely technology, but around the public he referred to it as magic. He hadn't forgotten this in the desert apparently.

"I realize you have a long trip back, so might I trouble you for a lift back to the Alliance? It won't take but a few minutes." Holt felt himself teeter a little. A few minutes? It had taken him two years to cross this desert, and still it went on beyond the horizon ahead of him.

"If it isn't too much trouble. I have information that must reach the Alliance at once. Have they had any luck in contacting Calvin yet? Or harnessing the Ceremonial Box?" Stafford shook his head. "Damn. Two years and still no progress more than I made. When we get back I will retrieve Calvin myself. The Final Attack will be among us soon, I fear."

Stafford smiled and climbed into his craft. "The back isn't exactly comfy, but it won't take but a few minutes, right?" Holt nodded and got into the craft.

"I must say I have, for the first time since the start of this war, thought that we may actually win this thing."

End Book I