Author's Note: This one's quite long, but hey, isn't that what you guys normally like? Right?

Mrs. Mina Harker: I thank you kindly in regards to your comment about the characters; it's very comforting as a writer to hear that. And about Exuro's flashes… thanks! Jeez, I could hug you! XD The histories should become clear as the story goes on. We've still got a while to go yet. But I will tell you one thing about Ezekiel and Mina: they were more than just friends…

Marcus Lazarus: The fourth party – who have popped up a few times now – appears in this chapter. Just look for the insertions that aren't the FTS, the Quattuor or Woods XD And I LOVE that tagline for Exuro! O.O It rocks my tiny little world! XD Can you tell I've had caffeine today?

Scifi Kane: Yay! You like Lacertus! He's my favourite… and Falx XD But I always did prefer Lac'. Thanks very much!

Drakena: Tom is indeed fighting o.O Can't put a good guy down… ahem, I should drink less tea. XD

BloodMoonLycan: Falx is a tad protective O.o Hey, you just came online! Hehehehehehe. O.o Exuro is having trouble, yes… gonna get worse as well. Hard to choose between Exuro and Tom? XD

Sethoz: Thank you kindly, Sethoz! Much obliged. Ack! Puss In Boots eyes! O.O Nooooooo! My weakness X.x

Ahem… so, anyway, here's the new – long – chapter of Eternal Midnight…

Donovan Masters gave the warehouse base one last glance over from up on the balcony, and then turned, striding into Larson's office with only a single knock. He had never really needed to do so anyway, with his experience with the man, he had garnered enough respect not to bother. At his right leg, a gun was holstered in a leather harness, as always, and his short sleeved shirt exposed his muscular upper arms as he strode into the room, sparsely decorated due to its recent acquisition. He stood with his arms linked behind his back, and waited to be acknowledged.

Larson's dark eyes perused some test results for a few moments, before he said, "How's it coming along?"

Donovan cocked his head slightly to one side, appearing pensive with a slight furrowing of his dark brow, before he smiled slyly. "We're just about ready, sir. Everything's in place. Containment is prepared, the men are geared, and we need only finalise the last detail. I thought you'd like to know straight away."

"Damn straight I would," Larson said, beaming, and stood from his chair. He walked around his desk, and patted Donovan on the shoulder. "We have only one last item to take care of then before the operation, don't we?"

"Of course," Donovan acknowledged with a curt nod. "Whenever you're ready, sir, we'll head right out."

Larson eyed him seriously for a moment, before grinning. "You needn't ask when I think you should go. They're in the way. Get rid of them."

Donovan tried to hide his own smile. "All of them, sir?"

Larson's nod was like a gift to Donovan, and he was dismissed. He practically bounced down the metal steps, heading towards his men, who were all geared up, armed, and ready to move out. He grabbed his own waistcoat from the table nearby, and pulled it on, padded and stocked with his equipment. He checked his radio, and slipped his earpiece in, taking a large automatic off the rack, before he came to a stop before his unit.

Addressing them, with his back to the office, he knew Larson was watching. So he puffed out his chest proudly, lifted his chin, and said, "Let's move out!" As one, the unit turned and jogged to the vehicles. Donovan glanced one last time over his shoulder to Larson, who gave him a nod of approval, and then he took off after them, hopping into the passenger seat of the lead vehicle. He instructed the driver to get them on the move, and they were soon driving out of the large building, three similar vehicles in a line, heading towards their destination at a steady, swift pace.

Donovan checked his gun as he sat there; bristling with anticipation, the thrill of the job filling him as he waited, a grin slowly spreading onto his face, one that he knew was on Larson's face back in the base.

Oh, this was going to be sweet.

Ezekiel leaned back in the leather chair, spinning lazily, his sword sitting guardedly on the table near to him, and heard the slight creak of the seat. He was bored… insanely so. He had always been one for the thrills and action. He wasn't a patient man; he wasn't one for reading and the build up. He started to whistle quietly, a somewhat lonely tune, before he yawned, his entire body screaming to be stretched. His curious gaze floated to the others as they loitered, and he wondered whether or not the urgency they spoke of was in fact real.

Mina was sitting in front of a laptop computer, glasses perched on her nose gracefully, a test tube lifted in front of her eyes, and she stared at it, tapping the glass experimentally. She cocked her head inquisitively, intrigued, and made a low noise of acknowledgement as to the substance within the tube. He watched her subtly, ensuring Illyria would not see. He had loved Mina Harker once… quite positively, deep inside, still did. They had been fiery together, and then… he didn't like to think about it. He didn't like to place blame. Nostalgia was a weakness, in a way, and weaknesses got people hurt… killed.

"Dmitri?" Mina finally said. "If you wouldn't mind? I think we have waited long enough."

The Russian lifted his head from the book he was reading, some native novel Ezekiel couldn't translate the cover of, and nodded without a word. He placed down the book, and strode to the telephone on the centre table, lifting it in his large hand. Ezekiel rolled his head back, laying his spiky hair down flat on the rear of the chair, sighing. He listened to the sound of the dialling, and yawned again, closing his eyes, smelling Illyria's approach.

He felt her seat herself gently on his lap. She was silent as ever, but he loved her for that. She said so much more with her eyes than she did with words. They were so expressive, and he smiled lightly as she leaned into him, her head on his shoulder. He gave a contented, restless sigh, and he propped his cheek on top of her head, listening keenly to what transpired around him.

He cursed, scanning his eyes properly over the chassis, and scowling. It was a mess, and he was so far beyond annoyed he was about ready to go out into the street, take the first person he could get, and do something very unpleasant to them… what that was, he didn't know, but his imagination went into overdrive.

"How's it going?" came the voice of Lacertus from behind him. He had smelt him a while ago, watching him, but hadn't bothered to acknowledge him.

"Nowhere, and fast," Exuro retorted impatiently. "Bastards shot it to shit." He growled, and turned his back on the Lotus, leaning against it slightly. It was going to need to be serviced. There was nothing he could do to it himself, with all the body damage. "Ah well… at least they're all dead, right?" He shrugged, sighing, and closed his eyes for a moment, with a flash of memory snatching at his senses. He saw himself careening towards an old theatre, after firing a flare, but jerked back to reality when the car slammed down in a landing.

"You okay, Ex'?"

"I'm fine," was his automatic, and blunt response, as he turned to look at the interior of the car. "They didn't get too deep in, luckily," he said, abruptly changing the subject lest Lacertus hit home on the problem, something that did not delight Exuro in thinking about. "It's just bodywork, but it's nothing I can fix."

"It can be repaired," the other werewolf pointed out lazily, before turning his head slightly, at the same time as Exuro himself. The two stared at the doorway, moments before Falx and Gladius came through it, the alpha female holding a cell phone out to the alpha male.

"You're not going to believe who it is," she said, her voice carrying her tone of irritation brilliantly. Exuro hesitantly reached out and took it, eyeing the others warily as he put it to his ear.

"Who is this?"

"As I told your mate, you will recognise my voice. Introductions are pointless, and unnecessary."

"Dmitri," Exuro growled, and glanced to Lacertus, who was the other curious individual in the room. "What the hell do you want? I don't care how you got the number, but I want a reason now, or I'm hanging up."

"I'd just phone back," the Russian responded. Exuro could picture the vague smile on the large man's face, and he frowned angrily.

"When did you get so cocky?" Shaking his head, he quickly said, "Anyway, what are you calling for? I seriously doubt you want a job done, so what is it?"

"It's time to end it."

He knew his fellow lycanthropes had heard that, and looked to them with intrigue as they all turned their heads in his direction upon the sound of those words coming through the phone.

"End it…" he repeated, almost questioningly.

"Yes… it has gone on for long enough."

A cunning smile spread across Exuro's face for a moment, before his senses and alarms kicked in, and he said sarcastically, "Hold, please." He brought the phone away, doing just as he'd said, and putting the call on hold at the touch of a button, before looking to the others. "Now… why don't I trust them?"

"Because they've been after us for over one hundred years?" Lacertus responded blandly.

Falx was stoically and fiercely silent, standing solidly before her mate, and she stared into his eyes firmly, saying everything with her gaze. She was reluctant too, in case of a trap – not that those fools ever had a chance of outsmarting them – but eager to get it all over with, and as soon as possible.

Gladius, however, wasn't quite so hesitant. "So what are we waiting for? Aren't you tired of wondering if they're on our tails? They've followed us for nearly a century. Let's be rid of them!"

Exuro glanced; eyes narrowed, at the omega, and cocked his head. "Why are you so keen all of a sudden?"

"I've had enough of them," Gladius responded, confidently. "And I thought you, for one, might leap at the chance to destroy them once and for all. They're challenging us! Don't back down from them, Exuro."

Exuro bristled at that, squaring his shoulders. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn Gladius was goading him to get his way… but he had a point. Glancing to the other two, they shrugged or remained silent, offering no argument, so he closed his eyes for a moment, sighed, and took the phone off hold, saying into it, "Fine. When and where?"

There was a certain, annoying apprehension twisting his gut at the thought of meeting up with the three of them again, those who had once been allies of Tom Sawyer… it showed no signs of fading, and he found himself wondering why it was so strong.

"Sir!"

The door flew open as Strand ran in urgently; tie flying over his shoulder as he entered, without knocking, panic flashing in his eyes as he exclaimed, "Sir! We have intruders in the building!"

Samuel looked up from his papers, irritated and temples throbbing, saying, "So have the guards accompany them from the premises, Strand. Calm down, for goodness' sake."

Strand surged up to the side of the desk, palms flat on the polished wood, and he panted as he shook his head vehemently. "That's just the problem, sir… they've already killed all the guards!"

Samuel's eyes lifted at once, and widened. "They're armed?"

Strand nodded quickly.

"Is it the Quattuor?" For years, Samuel had anticipated an attack by the four, but never had it happened. He wasn't entirely sure why. Though his guards' guns were – or had been – loaded with silver bullets, the four could probably have easily infiltrated the building and exterminated most of the occupants before being stopped.

"No, sir, not the Quattuor."

As he was standing from his desk hurriedly to get a view on the situation, he briskly demanded, "Then who?"

"We don't know, sir, but they look military to an extent." They were walking down the corridor towards a surveillance room by this point. "They're working as an organised unit, which suggests training and obedience. There's one clear head of the group, and he's the one who's taken out most of the guards so far."

"Have you run any physical scans through the databases?"

"Yes, sir, and we got nothing. Either they're too good to be on record or… they don't exist." Strand jogged to keep up with his superior, even as Samuel threw open the door to his surveillance room, and strode right over to the main wall of monitors. Just as Strand had explained, there were bodies of the once-infallible guards on several, and on others, he could see the men moving about. Again, just as Strand had reported, they worked as a unit, compact and ruthless, obedience and experience radiating from them in waves, even through the glass of the monitors.

"Where are the backup teams?" Samuel demanded of the man to his right, the one responsible for just such a notification. He was wearing a small headset to contact and communicate with the team, and he looked up at his superior.

"They've been dispatched already, sir," he reported, confusion on his youthful features. He shook his head. "But I've lost contact. I can't explain it."

"Well find a way, and fast," Samuel growled. Quietly, under his breath, to himself, he added, "I don't like losing control…"

Donovan whirled at the sound of footsteps swiftly approaching, and lots of them, inwardly mocking their serious lack of stealth. If they were aiming to sneak up on his team, they were failing miserably, and he ducked into the alcove of a doorway, along with the rest of his unit. One half had stayed with him, and the other had stayed with Michaels, his second in command, a stalwart, somewhat stoic man fresh out of the armed forces. He had been expelled for misconduct, but Donovan had assured him a place in his own unit. He wanted the best, regardless of their previous indecencies on superior officers or the like. None of that mattered to him. It was quality he was after, and he more or less always got it. He was a man who liked to get his way… by any means necessary.

He aimed down the length of the automatic weapon, sighting expertly and briskly, and as soon as the first man had ducked around the corner, he was downed instantly by a brief burst from Donovan's gun. He landed flat on his back with a grunt, and the other men jumped back, alerted to the presence of enemy fire.

No shit… took 'em long enough.

They were calling to one another, and Donovan indicated to his men with hand signals, brief and abrupt, yet precise, to instruct them. They nodded their confirmation, and executed defined manoeuvres. He had trained them well, and nothing but the best was good enough to make it onto his team. They all knew that. It was what kept them focused. No one had disappointed Donovan enough for him to show what that would lead to, and he hoped he would never have to.

It was so swift that Donovan only registered it due to his knowing it was coming. The lights were shot out, and the only illumination came in flashes from the bursts of gunfire from his men's weapons. Shouts of surprise and agony came from the other end of the corridor, and by the time Donovan struck a flare and tossed it, he saw that all their opponents had been downed. One was still moving. Shouldering his automatic, he headed in the lead down the corridor, and placed his boot on the man's chest.

Mercy kill, was the only thought running through his head as he drew his sidearm and without batting an eyelid, shot the man in the heart, killing him. With that, and not a second thought, holstering his pistol and hefting his automatic again, they carried on towards their target.

Samuel turned furiously to his other workers in the room. "Somebody tell me what's happening out there, now!" He turned this way and that, and saw a number of hands fly deftly over keyboards, check the earpieces they wore, or look to him. None showed a scrap of offering, and he imagined he'd growled in that moment.

The one he had spoken with originally shrugged with a shake of his head. "We're not getting anything back from the teams sent out to stop the renegades, sir. I've got… nothing."

"Alpha and Beta teams are down," reported another. "I've lost Gamma, and Delta never even got out of the base."

Samuel let out a yell and took hold of a keyboard from an unused desk, tearing it from the wall and hurling it across the room, where it smashed against one of the large screens showing the intruders. The keys shattered out of the plastic casing and scattered across the floor, with everyone looking on in surprise at the outburst. As if on cue, or having heard the noise, the obvious leader of the teams invading his building turned his head to the camera with a sly smirk, and lifted his weapon, shooting out the lens. In line, all the cameras went down, and all the men in the room tried frantically to get them back in working order.

Samuel could only stand in dismay, seething and ready to grab someone and strangle the life out of them if they didn't give him something.

"All the cameras are dead, sir."

Anything but that.

"That is not what I wanted to hear, dammit," he snarled, and the man cowered apologetically.

"Sir, we should get you out of the building," Strand offered at once, his panic lacing his voice. "We can have a chopper on the roof–"

"I will not run away, Strand," Samuel snapped back. "I will not flee with my tail between my legs like some cowardly dog." The emphasis on the word was not lost on the others in the room. Samuel suspected the Quattuor of being involved, they knew, and he couldn't help but give in to suspicion. Who else could be behind this? He only wished there was something he could use to stop these men. "Strand, give me that number."

"Sir?"

"Don't act ignorant with me, Strand! Give me the goddamn number!" The fire that blazed in his eyes was reflected in Strand's, and the man snatched into his jacket pocket even as the computer screens in the room flickered out of life, and the lights waned. They were tampering with the power.

Samuel grabbed the slip of paper, and yanked his cell phone from his pocket. He could hear footsteps down the hall, though they were hushed… stealthy. They were getting nearer. It would not be long before they reached this room, he knew, but he would not go down quietly. He quickly dialled the number, almost stubbornly reluctant before survivor's instinct kicked in, and he pressed the phone to his ear, hearing it ring.

Even as someone picked up the line on the other side to answer, the door blew inward, and Samuel dropped the phone. His attention from it was lost as he and Strand headed for the back of the room. Samuel yearned for a weapon, and suddenly found he couldn't remember where he had kept them. They were in this room, somewhere, he knew, even as three operators were blasted out of their chairs by gunfire, thrown bloodily to the floor, dead. Samuel boiled with a rage, and cast his eyes about, freezing when he looked over his shoulder. The locker… they were in the locker.

Haphazardly, he threw himself towards it, hearing more of the gunfire and agonised death screams of his workers, even as he grabbed the code bar on the locker. He punched it in, and tore the door open, scrambling for a weapon, cursing his nerves at this desperate time. His hand clasped around the grip of a handgun, and he turned to use it just as someone was advancing on Strand. He pulled the trigger, and hit the intruder, sending him backwards… but not killing him.

They were wearing vests, the whole damn lot of them!

Samuel growled in frustration, and remembered what training he had ever received, and aimed again; pulling the trigger to take down one of the men, blood spraying from a fresh hole in his neck. They had their vulnerable spots, and Samuel knew where to hit. The legs, arms and neck… if possible, the face.

The leader of the men ducked in the doorway and fired a shot towards Samuel, but he ducked behind the desk, grabbing Strand roughly by the collar and yanking him out of the line of fire, just as bullets exploded into where he had been crouched.

"Keep your bloody eyes open, dammit!" He thrust a gun into Strand's hand. Though the man had never been keen on combat, Samuel knew Strand would do what it took to get out of the building alive. If necessary, he would take down whatever men tried to stop them.

Strand fired at one of the men, slamming them in the knee, and the scream from the wounded man resonated around the room as he crumpled to the floor. Samuel nodded in acknowledgement of Strand's willingness and poked his head out from his hiding place again. The men at the computers were all dead, and the floor and walls had been sprayed with their blood.

It was just him and Strand now. To their knowledge, there was no one else in the building to help them.

"Sir," Strand began somewhat negatively and desperately and his widened eyes turned to his superior as he shifted the grip on his weapon, a regulation sidearm. His whole arm was shaking.

"I know we're stuck, Strand, so don't tell me useless information." Though he had intended to sound stern, it came out somewhat quavering, showing his own lack of nerves in this situation.

"Sir," Strand began again, his voice a hiss of attempted discretion. "There's another way, if we can just get out the door behind us…the passages."

Samuel narrowed his eyes in thought, and then looked to his assistant with careful consideration. He was right. Why hadn't Samuel thought of it before? He patted Strand on the shoulder, and spoke in a low voice to tell him what to do, when and how.

Donovan sighed, almost disappointed, and reloaded his automatic, shaking his head and tutting loudly. He knew there were two of them behind that desk, hoping they couldn't be seen. Pathetic really. He had seen them dive behind it. Did they think him stupid?

Well… they won't live to regret it, will they? Donovan mused with a smirk, and poked his head and gun nozzle over the edge of the desk, aiming at… nothing.

Gunfire erupted around him then, and he heard the shouts of his own men. The noise made him practically snarl in rage, and he turned to see the last one ducking out the door, the two men he had been intending to aim at ducking behind their cover again. Donovan rolled his eyes. He had heard one gun click on empty. But which one was it? No matter what, he was confident he could outmanoeuvre it. He had had training, and plenty of it. He would hear the movement before the bullet, and if he timed it right, he might even be able to wind it so that one shot the other.

Which was something he would find amusing.

Smirking, he strode into the middle of the room, where the desks parted, and there was a kind of cross in the workspace. He lowered his gun for a while, appearing to surrender himself… and then the idiots did exactly as he had predicted.

The one to his left jerked into motion, and the right wasn't far behind. Their gun barrels lifted, and Donovan quickly measured just by their appearance which one was out of bullets. So it was that he acted as he did.

He slammed his gun around, twisting his body so his back was to the younger man on his left, and rammed the grip backwards, feeling and hearing it connect with a dull thud into the face. He heard the body fall back with a grunt and a cry, and then it did not move.

Without blinking, Donovan aimed his gun at the older man, and fired, blasting him back with the force of a projectile anvil. The bullet lodged in Woods' – he recognised his face – chest, and rammed him back, and down to the ground with a gurgle. Blood bubbled into his mouth, and spilled from the corner of his lips, eyes straying to the wound in his chest, and then rising to meet the soldier's. Donovan paced forward, and crouched down; noticing Woods did not even lift his gun to strike in return.

"A gift," he said quietly, slyly, loud enough for the dying man to hear, and leaned in close, "from General Robert Larson."

Woods' eyes widened in recognition of the name, and Donovan rested back on his haunches as the man choked, jerked once, and then died. He sighed loudly, and tilted his head in consideration of the corpse in front of him. His men started to file back into the room again.

"You know what to do," he said to the 'clean up crew'. Of course, clean up translated roughly to 'smash and destroy'. This, of course, related to the computers, which held records of Larson's proposed research, the reason he had been ejected from his service in the first place.

Fools… they were missing the rise of a new era.

With a gloved hand, Donovan reached into his waistcoat inner pocket, and retrieved a small, compact cell phone. Pressing a few buttons, he lifted it to his ear, waited for the answering voice, and simply said, "We're done here."

"Good," was Larson's response, stoic but happy, Donovan knew, from working with the ex-general for a time now. "You know where you're needed. Do me proud."

"Yes sir," Donovan replied, and cut off the call, replacing the phone as he stood, the music of destroyed computers blowing and sparking all around him as he added, "Absolutely…"

The pictures were scattered everywhere, the files they needed to study before their encounter with the Quattuor spread and easy to consult. No words were spoken – at least not yet. They all simply stared down at the pages that had been set out like a jigsaw puzzle, and wore matching expressions of grim resolve.

Anise was feeling… she didn't know what she felt, but she didn't like it. She was going to see him again, one of the rare occasions where Dmitri and Mina would allow it. They had kept them apart as many times as possible, despite Anise's belief that she would be able to help him.

Her fingers acted of their own accord, touching lightly over one of the surveillance photos laid out before her, and without realising, she had picked it up to stare at it. The tears did not come, and her eyes simply gazed unwaveringly at the print of him. He was gazing slightly over one shoulder, to the rest of the Quattuor slightly out of frame, and she sighed with a frown.

What would happen when she saw him again? Face to face?

"Anise…" A hand touched against her arm gently, and she was aware of Mina addressing her softly, and in reassurance. "We will get him back."

When she responded, her voice was almost distant, her eyes focused solely on the picture, with everyone looking at her. "We have to. This has lasted long enough."

And with that, she placed the picture face down on the table, determined that this would be the end of it. Tonight would be the last time she saw Exuro…

She would get him back… the real him.

The shrill ringing of the phone startled her, and Dmitri reached over to activate the speaker, but before either he or the caller could speak, a loud crash and gunfire was heard through it. Eyes widened and met across the table, and yells of pain flowed to their ears.

Something was very wrong…