Ross was pacing back and forth in his temporary quarters, waiting for Hayden and ARC Director Oppenheim to decide his fate. He'd failed to discern the supersoldier's orders, employers, or goals, and "let him get away." But Ross had also seen too much of the subject to simply return to UAC Switzerland, which - thanks to cultist spies in the organization - kept hold of secrets about as well as a fork kept hold of soup. And he'd figured out that the North American governments were going to fall back to the Rockies and abandon the coastal cities to the invaders. That wasn't something they wanted an intern to accidentally blurt out in the company cafeteria.
Suddenly the wall phone rang. Ross leapt to press the button.
"Yes?"
"Is this Mr. Fried Man?" The voice spoke skeptically, as though he'd been told as a prank that this was Ross's last name.
"It's pronounced 'freed-mun.' Who is this?"
"Officer Davis, Civilian In-Processing at the East Gate."
"Okay … Absolutely no offense intended, but why are you calling me?"
"Lieutenant Garcia's weekly surveillance notes said you're on loan to Denver ARC for any - and I'm quoting him here - 'weird mercenary shit.' Is that correct?"
"That's me, the Weird Shit Guy. Actually, don't call me that, it sounds awful when you say it out loud. What can I help you with?"
"Sir, there is a very large man here who walked right up to the gate and won't show ID. He's wearing some sort of strange green armor, and -"
"I'll be right there! Don't let him leave!"
"I don't think we could move him if we wanted to, sir."
Ross wasn't under confinement orders, so his White Diamond clearance card got him out of the ARC complex and onto the improvised monorail that went to the East Gate. It was a good thing he liked cardio, because he ran whenever he wasn't on the tram.
"Where?" Ross blurted out to the first guard he saw. The young man pointed him in the direction of a people-sized door next to the gigantic gate. The other guard waved him over, checked his ID and let him into the tunnel through the ten-foot-thick wall that protected the Denver Fortress.
Outside, a blond man he assumed was Officer Davis was flanked by no less than six other helmeted guards. They all had black UAC-brand armor and Assault Rifles, pointed down but with index fingers resting on the barrels, ready for the trigger.
Standing with his empty hands loose at his sides, The Slayer did not seem perturbed. If he had any expression at all behind that visor, it was a hint of boredom.
"My God, you're back."
No response.
"He doesn't answer any questions," Officer Davis explained. "Up to and including, 'Who are you?' 'Do you have any identification?' 'Why are you here?' and 'You do realize I'll shoot you if you're a threat?' " Davis lifted one hand in exasperation. "Who is this guy?"
"Gore Nest specialist," Ross said quickly. "He's on loan from a merc company. The rest is classified, though, so I'll need you gentlemen to back up out of earshot." When they had complied, Ross asked The Slayer quietly, "Were you waiting for me?"
The supersoldier nodded.
"I assume you're here because you want something?"
A nod.
"Ammo?"
A shake of the head.
"Explosives?"
Negative.
"Wait a minute … White Sands?"
That finally got a nod.
"You do want us to take you to White Sands?"
Another nod.
'Hot damn, I was right,' Ross said to himself, and then out loud, "We could come pick you up out here in, say, fifteen minutes?"
He nodded.
"Choose a spot for us to land, and we'll find you."
The Slayer strode away through the refugees' abandoned vehicles without a word.
Ross almost said Don't disappear, but then realized a well-armed, well-armored supersoldier would stay or go wherever he damn well pleased and there wasn't much anybody could do about it.
"You sound out of breath," the ARC director noted when Ross called him.
"Yes, sir, that's because I'm jogging."
"Jogging? Aren't you supposed to be on duty?"
"Jogging because I'm hurrying to the helicopter pad. I need Garcia and Thompson to get her spun up ASAP."
"You can't simply commandeer my stealth helicopter, Friedmann. You're an intern, remember?"
Ross heard an echoey Hrmph from Hayden on Oppenheim's vid screen in the background. Apparently Hayden had indulged in a bit of gossip with Director Oppenheim and revealed Ross's unfortunate habit of usurping his superiors.
"I know, sir, but it's important. Hayden's 'special project' is here and wants to go to White Sands Missile Range."
"Ah-ha. Your guess was correct after all. One moment."
Ross heard Oppenheim conferring with Hayden through his office's video link. Soon the director came back to Ross's call and said, "Dr. Hayden would like to know what you think he wants from White Sands."
"Some kind of experimental technology he knows is located there. White Sands doesn't have regular weapons; it's a repository for weird shit. Uh, pardon my French. Trust me when I say we don't want to lose this lead. He has tech like I've never seen, and you'll want someone taking notes. He already knows me, Garcia and Thompson. Not sure how he'd react to new personnel."
After a slight pause, Oppenheim said, "Granted. Take pictures. Video if you can."
"Sir, we're also going to need clearance. If there's anyone left guarding White Sands, we don't want to get shot down with some kind of bizarre raygun."
"I'll make it happen."
Thompson and Garcia were more than eager to pick up the supersoldier again. They grinned hugely at Ross when he ran up to the helicopter, and even more so when The Slayer stepped into the aircraft again, making it rock on its skids.
Ross thought, 'He must be nearly three hundred pounds including armor. Bet it helps with curb-stomping demons, though.'
"Welcome aboard," said Lieutenant Garcia.
He got the tiniest of nods from The Slayer as the big man grabbed the overhead strap.
Garcia beamed.
Thompson had brought extra 12-gauge ammo boxes. A lot of them. When The Slayer noticed them, the corporal also got a tiny nod.
'In-flight snacks,' Ross thought. 'He looks like he eats expended casings for breakfast.'
They were speeding over a small New Mexico town called Taos in an almost cheerful silence when Thompson cursed, "Shit, there's a convoy down there. And the demons found them already."
Makeshift armored trucks had surrounded a flock of smaller personal vehicles like circling the wagons in the Old West. People were standing on top of the tall trucks, firing handguns and shotguns down into the rising tide of Imps trying to claw their way up the sides. There were a few Gargoyles on the ground as well, dragging their wings behind them like children wearing blankets, as if the leathery tissue were too heavy for their bodies. Through the gaps under the trucks, more people were firing hunting rifles from a prone position. All of them were covered head to toe in firefighting gear. That was smart. It would mitigate the Imps' fireballs and the Gargoyles' acidic spit. The countermeasure wouldn't work for more than a few minutes, but these refugees had guts, and they weren't going down without a fight.
Yet there were more and more Imps streaming out of the trees and toward the beleaguered convoy. One or two Possessed Soldiers and some Zombies also lumbered out. Shit. Word was spreading amongst the demons in this area: it was feeding time. Even Hell Knights, Mancubi, Barons of Hell and Revenants, moving very slowly because of the thin air at this altitude, would be here eventually.
The Slayer thumped the ceiling with his fist.
"Don't have to ask me twice," responded Garcia, and set down hastily.
The supersoldier, of course, was on the ground and running before the skids touched earth. He hit the back ranks of the Imps and Gargoyles and scattered them like bloody bowling pins.
Ross got on the bullhorn and shouted to the startled refugees, "Keep firing! His suit's bullet-resistant!" It might even be bulletproof, but better safe than sorry.
The civilians opened up again as The Slayer hacked and slashed with that giant blade attached to his arm. He wasn't using any ballistic weapons, probably to avoid hitting anyone in the convoy with friendly fire.
The dozens of small demons still didn't stand a chance. Acid spit stuck to his armor but couldn't eat its way through. Fireballs blackened the paint, but it slowly reverted to green even as Ross watched. Imps and Gargoyles streamed around the sides of the circle to pile onto each other and the supersoldier.
Ross took notes feverishly, using old-fashioned shorthand on pen and paper, so he could jot down his observations without looking.
Suit bullet-resistant. Maybe bullet-proof. Acid-resistant. Fire-resistant. Regenerating outer layer. (What scratched it, then?) Imps and Gargoyles not immune to flamethrower. Turret has finite number of ice bombs (two). Harpoon-shotgun not currently in use. Subject has sufficient strength to tear Imps and Gargoyles in half at the waist. (Suit a force-multiplier?)
"You guys are recording this, right?" Ross remembered to ask.
"One hundred percent affirmative," Garcia confirmed.
Thompson was using precision shots to execute demons on the fringes of the mob. "They're all attacking him at once," he observed. "Completely lost interest in the convoy."
Ross jotted down, Imps and Gargoyles have enough decision-making capabilities to recognize a superior threat.
The Slayer stomped on something and wrenched off a piece. It turned out to be a Gargoyle's arm, which he used in much the same way as his own blade, slashing double-handed through the swarm of lesser demons until absolutely every single one of them was either in pieces or had been shot by Thompson and the refugees.
He didn't even seem to be breathing hard.
"Damn," Garcia swore softly.
Thompson and Ross nodded mutely. The refugees on top of the trucks also seemed to be a bit startled at the sudden end to the screeching and flames.
Even from a hundred yards away inside an aircraft, Ross could hear the terrified wailing of small children.
'Goddammit, there are kids in there.'
The Slayer began a circle around the convoy at the pace of a stalking tiger, probably checking for any demons who'd gotten smart and hidden themselves.
Ross got on the bullhorn again.
"Hey, uh … hi, there. We're from the Denver ARC. Everybody stay in the circle until The … soldier … has finished checking the perimeter for stragglers, okay? I'm going to come out and talk to you. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't shoot me."
Ross hung up the handset and told Garcia, "Might as well shut off the camo. Thompson, you coming with me? You look much more military than I do."
Ross and Thompson walked slowly to the convoy with their empty hands in plain view. The firefighter-clad civilians huddled together on top of the tallest truck and looked down at them.
"Hi, there," he began. "I'm Ross, this is Thompson."
"Hello." Thompson waved awkwardly.
"May we, uh … may we come in?"
The shooters looked at each other through their face shields and breathing apparatuses.
"Uh, sure," a muffled woman's voice came from one of them. "Come through the cab beneath us. We have to climb down the back."
"Meet you there," Ross said brightly, hoping it made him sound friendly. For civilians, they were very heavily armed. Even one of those slow-firing compound bows could do a lot of damage when loaded with a boar-hunting arrow.
Inside the circle were no less than eighty people. A lot of them were children. Most of those were being held by relatives trying to calm them.
An elderly gentleman was kneeling in front of a plump, pretty older woman who was, strangely, holding a giant block of clay bundled in plastic wrap.
"Meredith," the man said gently. "Meredith, we're okay. It's over. It's over now. ... Let me have the detonator, please."
Oh, shit. The boxy gray object she was clutching to her chest wasn't clay; it was a brick of C-4.
Meredith was staring into nowhere with unblinking eyes and a hand tightly locked around a grip-switch detonator, so the elderly man gingerly took hold of the blasting cap and lifted it out of the high explosives like removing a meat thermometer from the Thanksgiving turkey.
Ross - and everyone else who knew what that brick was - breathed a sigh of relief. Without the detonator, the C-4 was as safe as a real block of clay; even lighting it on fire wouldn't do more than produce a small flame and some toxic fumes.
This group of refugees had made a last-resort plan to euthanize themselves and their children when the demons broke through the circle. They'd planned to go out in a literal blaze rather than be ripped apart or dragged to Hell. They'd expected to die.
These people were insanely lucky. They'd made their last stand at the one place on Planet Earth that happened to have Superman fly overhead. Okay, maybe that was overstating it a little, but the result was the same. By a stroke of good fortune, they were going to live.
Most of the adults were comforting crying children, but one older man answered their questions between gulps of water.
"We were hiding at the Santa Fe ski resort. Most of us are from Santa Fe, some from Albuquerque. Yesterday there was a huge explosion downtown and the demons disappeared. So we made a break for it. We heard on the ham radio network that Denver got its walls up."
"They sure did. And you do have very good timing; the Super Gore Nests between here and Denver are out of commission for the moment. I think you got ambushed by scouts looking for the reason their Gate in Santa Fe went dark."
The older man gulped another mouthful of water and then declared through his weather-cracked lips, "I'm a surgeon. I'm useful. But I'm not going to Denver without my -"
Ross cut him off with a raised hand. "There's no need for negotiation. Denver is taking everyone. Pets and farm animals are a gray area, but if you're human, you're welcome. They will check you for cultist markings before you can have free access to the city, though. You all just stay calm. I'm going to get somebody down here from Denver to escort you in."
"Wait," the doctor said as Ross and Thompson were turning to leave. "Who the hell is that guy?"
Ross and Thompson surreptitiously shared a glance. "The soldier?"
"Well, I sure as hell ain't asking about you two twigs," the man laughed.
Ross snorted. "Point taken. Anyway, he's sort of a secret. Although not really, since now you've seen him."
The doctor raised an eyebrow as he took another sip. "You haven't answered my question."
"True. Look, all I can tell you is that he isn't regular military. A specialist on loan to the ARC. That's all I can say."
"Government black ops," the doctor tossed over his shoulder to another man in firefighter gear.
"First time in my life I'm glad the government has secret projects," the bulky man responded.
'Ah, no wonder they have such good gear for civilians: some of them are doomsday preppers. Well, it looks like their paranoia wasn't so paranoid. Doomsday is here.'
Content that they were assuming The Slayer belonged to the government, Ross said, "Let me get started on that transport. Don't be shocked if some of the vehicles have military insignia; ARC collects pieces from abandoned battlefields."
"Yeah," the bulky guy admitted. "ARC ain't so bad. They mostly just make stuff."
"Well, they're running Denver these days since the military got deployed to the active Hellified Zones."
"Good enough for me," said the doctor.
Ross collected a bit more info before he climbed back through the truck cab and jogged to the helicopter to use the encrypted radio. The blood-smeared Slayer was standing outside the aircraft, scanning the horizon. A few civilians were using binoculars to examine the treeline. Some of them had the devices trained on The Slayer and were making gestures to each other. Ross guessed they were checking out his armor and speculating on which branch of the military he worked for.
'I wish I knew who he worked for, too, guys,' Ross thought.
He keyed up the ARC director's channel.
"Director Oppenheim, sir, we came across a good-sized convoy outside of Santa Fe."
"Damn. How many dead?"
"Two, unfortunately. But there are eighty more live refugees, and they could use a hand getting the rest of the way to Denver."
"Eighty?" Oppenheim said like Ross had told him he'd found a mountain of jewels; half skepticism and half excitement. "Did you say eighty?" It was rare that a group of any size made it through the roving packs of demons to Denver's gates. Usually it was only one or two at a time who'd managed to stay undetected.
"Yes, sir, they're refugees from Albuquerque and Santa Fe who were hiding in the mountains at the ski resort ten thousand feet up. Hardly any demons at that altitude, but they were running out of food and medicine. They made a run for it when The Slayer took out the Santa Fe Nest. We happened to pass overhead in the nick of time and The Slayer made mincemeat out of the attackers."
"So civilians have seen him in action," Oppenheim mused. "Dr. Hayden will not be happy about that."
"And you, sir? What do you think?"
"I think we've got eighty more living human beings than we did before. That's good enough for me. Hayden can go -" He cut himself off. "Well, I probably shouldn't say, even over an encrypted channel. He's probably listening."
"Almost certainly, sir."
"How's the road south looking?"
"It's pretty quiet for about a hundred-mile radius around each of the dead Supers. Obviously the Hell forces are curious why the Gates went down in those areas and are sending scouts from Flagstaff and Amarillo to see what happened, but the flying units are all grounded at this altitude, and it seems like the larger demon species are too slow to keep up. If you could get a couple of those Osprey tilt-rotors to us before the big guys get here …"
"Yes, yes, I follow you. We can fit about 20 civilians each in an Osprey, and make it there and back without having to refuel in mid-air, which is always a bitch and a half. Plus they're in luck: we have seven." Oppenheim didn't need to mention that the Denver ARC had seven because five of them were military Ospreys that had evacuated the last of the Peterson Space Force Base soldiers. The last ones who successfully escaped, that is. "I'll be holding one back in reserve, but we'll send four to carry the civilians and two for any supplies they can salvage."
"One of the men says he's a surgeon."
"Even better. The Ospreys can be there in less than an hour."
"Let me see if we can stick around that long." Ross covered his mic and raised his eyebrows at The Slayer. "Transport's coming. Wait an hour?"
The big man nodded.
"Yes, Dr. Oppenheim," Ross reported. "We can spare the time to guard them until the Ospreys get here."
Ross went to tell the refugees that their ride was coming. Thankfully, most of the kids had already bounced back and were excited at the idea of riding in a giant helicopter. Meredith was still staring into the abyss.
When he returned to his own aircraft Garcia was grumbling something.
Thompson patted his pilot on the shoulder and said soothingly, "You'd be able to go a hundred miles per hour faster too if you had a second rotor. But the extra speed doesn't make up for how ugly they are. And they're not real helicopters anyway."
Garcia mumbled something slightly less grumpy this time.
"You're welcome," Thompson responded.
The Slayer straightened up like a spaniel that's spotted a bird. Ross followed his line of sight to a Mecha Zombie shuffling out of the treeline with that peculiar one-sided limp they all had due to the weight of the flamethrowers that replaced their right forearms.
The Slayer took off for the demon, accelerating with shocking speed.
And then Ross observed something completely unexpected: a demon saw a human, turned around, and ran away.
Its shuffling gait was nowhere near fast enough to escape the supersoldier, who launched himself onto it from behind and twisted its head off like a partygoer removing a bottlecap. The spectating refugees cheered. The Slayer did not seem to notice, pacing slowly back to the helicopter.
Demon body language was bizarre, almost impossible to read, but Ross could have sworn the Mecha Zombie had recognized The Slayer.
Finally coming up on White Sands Missile Range around noon, Thompson remarked, "It's so weird. There's no damage, no demons, no Gore Nests …"
"No personnel," Ross said. "The demons aren't here to take our technology; they're here to take our people."
"Oh," Thompson said, considerably more subdued. "So if there was nobody here, there was no reason to come?"
"Exactly. White Sands has only had a skeleton crew - no pun intended - since the UAC and ARC took over most of the world's weapons research and development projects. When those organizations aren't here testing new weapons too dangerous for a space station, White Sands has only a handful of soldiers and a lot of automated weaponry guarding it. There are a bunch of weird one-off guns gathering dust here, and a hell of a lot of experimental explosives and super-strong materials."
"But don't they use our weapons, too?" Garcia asked over his shoulder as he made a gentle vertical landing. This time The Slayer did not jump out before touchdown. "I mean, you see Possessed Soldiers with our ballistic weapons all the time."
"White Sands doesn't have a huge armory of identical weapons like Petersen did. Most of the one-offs don't even have reloads available. Why spend days teaching a dumb-as-dirt fodder demon to fire a gun that only has six replacement rounds on the entire planet?"
Even after Thompson slid the door open, The Slayer didn't immediately leave. His visor was reflecting the high noon sunlight, but the tilt of his head toward Ross indicated he was listening. Listening, and … judging? Re-evaluating? Deciding if Ross knew too much?
"Uh," Ross said nervously. "Shall we?"
They moved across the helipad toward a large set of steel doors, leaving Garcia to watch over his beloved aircraft. The Slayer followed a bit too closely for Ross's liking, making him accelerate to almost a jog. It was like being pushed along in front of a snowplow.
A lone soldier met them at the doors. Instead of a firearm he was holding a dark blue staff. Ross could have sworn there was a low hum coming from the six-foot length of metal.
"Clearance," the soldier barked, the first person to not seem intimidated by The Slayer's mere presence. Ross got the feeling this wasn't the first mysterious supersoldier to show up on his doorstep.
"One second," Ross requested, fishing the White Diamond badge out of his pocket along with a slip of paper he'd scribbled the code on. Hoping it wasn't some kind of joke, Ross quoted, " 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, or close the wall up with our victorious dead.' I mean, that's not exactly how Shakespeare wrote it, but -"
"An exact quote wouldn't be a very good passphrase, now, would it? Clearance accepted." The soldier hollered over his shoulder, "Clear!" while touching the second pip on his collar's insignia. There was a hiss of hydraulics and the doors opened slowly inward.
It was a perfectly ordinary military lobby, but it felt unusual, as if they were walking through some kind of invisible fluid. The door guard, and the second soldier inside his glass booth, seemed way too confident for this to be anything less than an automated system which could handle every method of attack humans and demons had ever thought of. It might even be able to handle The Slayer.
"So! What can we do for you?" The soldiers were both very relaxed. Presumably a scan had just been completed that put their concerns to rest. Ross wondered briefly how The Slayer's extraordinary armor had passed the test.
"I'm not really sure, to be honest. My orders are to get The … specialist … here to White Sands and observe what he decides to do."
"Huh," the door guard said in only mild surprise. He said to his fellow soldier, "Tucker, check their access permissions."
"We have full access," Ross said.
"You have full clearance to be inside the building," the door guard said. "Full access to use things in the facility is a completely different layer of security."
Ross could see nothing from his position except the faint blue outline of a screen projection that Tucker read from.
"Yup, full access," he said with some surprise. "Haven't had one of those in a while."
"Nope. Makes my job easier, though. I don't have to keep slapping your hands away from things you're not supposed to touch." The door guard smiled pleasantly and held out his hand. "I'm Agent Bailey, this is Agent Tucker." Somehow he knew he should shake hands with Thompson and Ross but not The Slayer. "Welcome to White Sands."
The Slayer immediately turned left and pushed his way through another set of double doors. Ross, Thompson and Bailey scurried to keep up with him.
The supersoldier moved his head methodically left and right as he walked. It looked like he was scanning something with his visor. He shouldered his way through a single door that looked just like the others, flipped on the lights, took one look around and started pulling plastic tubs off the shelves. He found whatever he wanted three rows deep and thrust that tub into Ross's hands.
"Oh. Okay. Guess I'm carrying this for you."
The Slayer left, clearly expecting them to follow. Ross made sure his lapel camera was on.
They repeated this odd process in seemingly-random rooms along several hallways until Ross, Thompson and Bailey were all practically juggling the boxes, tubs and tubes he'd stacked in their arms.
Bailey asked Ross quietly, "What, is he getting a jump on his Christmas shopping? Even I don't know what half this stuff is."
"No idea. Isn't it great?"
Thompson grinned at Ross's use of his phrase.
The Slayer led them down a long tunnel to a new building.
"Where are we at now?" Ross wondered.
"The Forge," answered Bailey. "This is where we store raw materials and forge them into objects for weapons testing. I wonder why we're here …"
The next room they entered was quite a large, windowless space with a lot of massive equipment that looked like several metal above-ground swimming pools with giant sink nozzles poised over them.
The Slayer strode over to a white pipe in the corner, wrenched the cover off, ran a hand over the various tubes and wires inside, found whatever he was looking for and started sawing away at it with a tool that had appeared in his hand.
"Uh, sir? Sir, I can't just let you -"
"Yes, you can," Ross assured him. "We have full access, remember, and you wouldn't physically be able to stop him anyway."
"You think so?"
"For simplicity's sake, we'll just say the suit is bulletproof."
"For simplicity's sake, we'll just say he would not have been allowed in here if the suit were White-Sands-proof."
"Oh, really," Ross said, impressed.
Bailey smiled. "It's a great place to work."
The Slayer pulled out whatever he'd been looking for, used his tool to strip and split several wires, then spliced them back together in a braided formation before putting the cover back on. There was a soft humming sound.
"Huh," Bailey said pleasantly. "I didn't know it could do that."
Returning to their little group, The Slayer opened the boxes they held, dumping the contents of each into a metal pool and tossing the empty containers aside. He didn't seem to mind if the strange collection of items bounced, broke, thumped, shattered or splattered on the bottom of the tank. It just looked like a bunch of metal lumps, devices, tools, jellies, liquids and bundles of spaghetti-like rods in various colors and textures.
The three men all raised their eyebrows at each other, but it seemed like none of them had any clue.
After dumping everything in, The Slayer fiddled with something on his left gauntlet and appeared to pull a long orange thread from one of the seams. Then he tossed it on top of the pile.
They all peered at the jumble of high-tech scrap.
Nothing happened for so long that Ross almost thought whatever The Slayer was trying hadn't worked. Then the thread glowed white-hot and drew all of the items to itself in a sudden jerk, like energizing a magnet. There was a tinkling sound and then a small explosion.
The three other men flinched back, but The Slayer gave a tiny nod of satisfaction. When the light died away, there was a low green mist obscuring the bottom of the tank.
Instead of admiring it like the others, he strode over to a set of giant metal pipes and flipped a lever on one of them. Ross heard machinery start to hum in the walls and ceiling.
"He's turned on the forge," Bailey informed them. "He's adding - let's see if I remember - yes, he's adding titanium." The Slayer flipped another switch. "And ferrofluid."
"Hmm." Ross steepled his hands and tapped the index fingers against his mouth as he thought. The glowing titanium blended with the ferrofluid and the mist, seeming to absorb them instead of vaporizing the black liquid or displacing the green gas. Heat rose off the swirling orange mixture like a furnace.
It was too much material for a weapon or a suit of armor. Ammunition, maybe? A shield? A vehicle of some kind?
A screeching noise shocked them out of the trance the glowing liquid had put them in.
The Slayer was pulling metal paneling off the wall.
"But …" Bailey began.
Ross put a hand on his arm as the supersoldier began tossing panels into another empty pool. "Shh. This is just getting good."
Over the next few minutes they watched with fascination as he hopped into the pool, lit up some kind of torch on his left gauntlet and began welding. Two huge half circles began to take shape. It was a mold for the metal to cool in.
"I need to call Oppenheim. Stay here," he whispered to Thompson. "Sorry, Bailey," he said to the agent. "I'm not sure you have clearance. That's not a joke, I promise."
Ross ducked out into the hallway and keyed up Oppenheim on the frequency he was now allowed to use on his earpiece.
"So, what's our mysterious friend up to?"
"Well, he's obviously not narrating for us, but …"
"Yes?"
"Sir, if I had to guess …"
"Guess away, Mr. Friedmann."
"I think he's building a Slipgate."
So we've got 3 choices for when Doom Eternal begins:
1) 2151 according to the title card on Bethesda's "DOOM Eternal - Official Trailer 2." Hell has been invading Earth for about 1 year.
2) 2163 when the Elena Richardson logs in the ARC Complex level were recorded. Hell's been invading for 13 years.
3) 2176 because the banners all over the ARC Complex level say "25th Annual ARC Expo" and the in-game codex says ARC was founded in 2151. Hell's been invading for 26 years.
ID Software seems to have changed the timeline on several occasions to suit whatever fits their current version of the story. We're going to do the same:
1) Doom (2016 reboot) happened in 2149.
2) "The Once and Future Slayer" begins in 2150.
3) Eternal will begin in 2151.
4) By 2151, ARC will have been around for 25 years as a research organization.
5) The dates on Elena's logs can take a long walk off a short pier.
(And I used to call the Gears of War timeline messy!)
