I'm aware that SOP-II is still listed as a major character in this story. She won't show up for a while longer, but when she does… well. Think if it this way: What are the chances she'd have a run-in with a shapeshifting superpowered soldier and not constantly pester him afterwards? She's like a puppy in that regard. When she takes a liking to someone, they'll have a lot of trouble trying to pry her off their leg. It's what gives Soppo her charm. :D

Someone also wanted to know my thoughts on the Singularity event, so here's my experience with it in a nutshell:

In the beginning: "Oh shit, the military's not playing around…"

By the end: "OH SHIT, THE MILITARY'S NOT PLAYING AROUND!"

Make of that what you will. I did get a little overexcited when I snagged MP7 on my first run, though. I've got a slot saved for her in my anti-Dreamer meme team, which is led by a certain screechy cat who shall go unnamed.

(Sector S09 Wilderness)

Day six kicks off the same as the ones before it.

I've developed a routine by now: wake up at the crack of dawn, eat whatever leftovers I saved for breakfast, get in a little PT, then do a quick inventory check before resuming my new life as a nomad. No different than when Omega-One was on extended active duty deployments, really.

What is different is the rapids. I don't know when I'll find another source of clean water again, so I make the absolute most of this opportunity while I still have it. Even my inner eight-year-old – the part of me that's deathly afraid of water – concedes that another six days without bathing is stretching it way too far, so he doesn't complain when I wade in with no reservation.

The rocks underfoot are smooth and slippery but I manage to hold steady. At least, until some random salmon, perhaps seeking vengeance for its relative I ate the other night, rockets out of the water and smacks me in the face with its tail. I'm very nearly thrown off-balance but regain my footing before I'm swept away in the current.

And people say fish have crappy memories…

Once I'm squeaky clean, I consult with Chino about possible methods to bring some water with us for the road ahead, and together we devise a plan to build a makeshift canteen. By 'together' I mean he just sits there smirking at me while I do all the work. It's all good, though. I know he's got rocks for brains.

Eight minutes later I've got a shoddy yet useable water skin. It's made from the emptied and thoroughly rinsed bag of a spare Doll ration (which I'd held onto in case I was super desperate), tied shut with a thread of cloth I'd sheared from the Jaeger's cloak. I'd used a pointy rock for that part. Rocks, I'm coming to discover, are damn versatile tools when you're in a pinch. They also make decent substitutes for missing friends. Funny how you only begin to realize this stuff when isolation threatens to drive you to the brink of madness.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. After I've filled the pouch to the brim and swap back to Nanosuit form, I gather up what meager possessions I own, break camp, and venture back into the untamed wildlands of whatever backwater country I've gotten myself stuck in.

I'm not expecting much to happen today. Another full day of walking, probably, with the occasional Sangvis outpost thrown in to break the monotony. Maybe find out what the deal with those Griffin Dolls is, if I run into them again.

As I continue my epic journey to fuck-knows-where, this little voice in my head wonders what it would be like if I were the subject of a nature documentary; the kind that are all narrated by that same Englishman. What was his name again...? David Attenborough. That's it. Anyway, here's what my imagination ended up producing:

"Here we have the extremely rare Nanosuit warrior prowling the woods in search of sanctuary. As is typical of his kind, he has no idea where he is or what he's supposed to be doing. And if you look closely, you can see he's befriended a rock; a telltale sign that this fascinating specimen has gone a tiny bit bonkers. How unfortunate…"

(Several Hours Later)

I burn miles by foot far quicker than any normal person could ever hope to. I scale steep cliffs and slide down grassy slopes. I cross gentle streams and raging rivers alike, holding Chino safely above water level with one arm while I furiously doggy paddle with the other. I navigate around trees so tall they almost seem to pierce the sky.

Sometimes the foliage blocking my path is so thick I have no choice but to turn around and try another direction. Other times I stumble across more SF installations. Unlike every encounter before, I avoid them – no sense leaving a trail when you're trying to stay off the grid. For now, I'll let the enemy live.

It doesn't bother me one bit. I keep pressing forward – to where, I don't know. What I do know is that I'm a high-value target who's caught the interest of at least two different factions; one evil, one maybe-evil, with both sending Tactical Dolls to find me. I can't allow myself to be spotted, not yet, not without more information. The way things are right now, I'd scale Mount freaking Everest before giving those androids a chance to pinpoint my location.

I don't make it to Everest. But I do eventually find something better.

Railroad tracks, strung along a gap between the trees that stretches in either direction as far as the eye can see. They're long rusted, more so than anything I'd seen in the old SF facility, although I'm too happy to care at the moment. Even an abandoned rail line should eventually lead me to a town or city, shouldn't it?

"What do you think, Chino? Left or right?" I ask my squadmate perched on my shoulder. "…You think right? Alright my man, let's hoof it!"

It's not much, but hey, at least I've now got an actual road to follow, y'know? No more getting stuck in thorny bushes because I tripped over a root. No more wandering in circles for hours on end because SECOND is acting lazy and not providing me a solid waypoint. This railroad is the first non-Sangvis-made sign of civilization I've come across since I first woke up, so of course I'm going to stick near it like a moth to a flame.

So I walk, and I walk, and I walk some more. The sun is trapped behind a gathering cluster of dark gray clouds. It's likely to rain soon, so I pull my hood up.

What's that Will Wheaton coming-of-age movie, the one where four kids go to find a dead body and follow the railroad tracks? Stand by Me. That's the name of it. Except in this case, instead of a quartet of ordinary boys, the main characters are a technologically enhanced zombie soldier and his rock buddy.

I keep up the pace, refusing to let the returning sense of boredom dampen my spirits. It's only been a few miles so far. It could take hours or even days to find the next train station, but I'm determined to press on.

Besides. Whining about how dull this is won't solve anything. As long as I keep following the tracks, then sooner or later I'll-

"DANGER: UNKNOWN CONTAMINANT DETECTED."

"Huh?"

I have maybe half a second to process False Prophet's ominous message before it consumes me.

I don't know what it even is though I'm suddenly too busy screaming bloody murder to give it any thought. Nanosuit 2 is going fucking haywire: warning signs and error messages and angry red exclamation marks pepper my tactical from top all the way to bottom, showing up just in time to shout that there's been a major systems breach before the feed is cut. Pain like I've never experienced wells up throughout my body and threatens to burst it from the inside-out.

Thump-thump.

Next thing I know my legs have given out and I'm belly-up on the ground. My head lolls to the side; I catch sight of Chino rolling off my shoulder and down a small incline. I reach forward to grab him and notice through the flickering BUD that the dense cords of nano-weave coating my arm are writhing, like they're alive, like they're in agony and can't withstand it. Then they rust before my eyes: sickly brown veins corrode the hexagonal black pattern composing the suit's outer layer. My arm grows stiff, then slackens. I almost don't believe what I'm seeing when ugly purple splotches, like bruises but way fucking nastier, crawl to the surface in between the corrupted nano-weave.

It takes me a second to realize I'm still screaming.

I feel my flesh crawling. I feel a fever rapidly settling in. My vision gets more distorted by the second. My strength ebbs away and I'm left lying on the overgrown railway, too weak to even move, completely helpless to stop whatever's happening.

Thump-thump.

"ANALYZING CORROSIVE AGENTS. REFERENCING INTERNAL VIRAL DATABASES. PLEASE WAIT." False Prophet is either unable to help or doesn't care that I'm convulsing like I'm having an exorcism. "…ANALYSIS COMPLETE. NO MATCH FOUND. DEEP LAYER ISOLATION PROTOCOL ENABLED."

Rain begins to drizzle on my faceplate. I can barely tell, however; it's getting harder and harder to see anything through the haze.

…I'm scared.

Is this how I die? Alone, in the middle of nowhere? I can't move and this, this mystery virus or whatever is mutating the damn suit, and I'm fucking scared and I'm not ready to die again, and-

I just-

I want to go home…

BUD flickers and dies. My vocal cords croak shortly after; raw terror grips the back of my throat as it dawns on me that I'm about to be next. There's no light at the end of this tunnel. I don't see my dad anywhere – just inky darkness permeated by a cold numbness in my bones.

As my vision gradually dims to black, I hear my heartbeat grow increasingly erratic through the murk clouding my ears.

Please, God, not yet… not yet…!

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-

I see sky.

I see nothing.

The convulsions stop.

…

…

…

"CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL COMPLETE. BIOCODE ADAPTATION UNDERWAY. NON-CRITICAL SYSTEMS DOWNBOOT INITIATED. SWITCHING TO LIFE SUPPORT MODE…"

BZZT!

And wouldn't you know it – the N2's not about to let its host go without a fight.

BZZT!

I choke out a shuddering gasp. The fog in my head begins to recede; my mental facilities start coming back online one at a time. I blink once: nothing but darkness. Twice: either the floaters in my eyes are exploding or I'm seeing an outside source. Three times: definitely raindrops against a storm gray background.

Not dead. I'm not dead.

OhmyfuckinggodI'mnotdead.

Hargreave, I know you tried to kill me and everything, but thank you from the bottom of my heart for having the foresight to install a defibrillator.

I lay there for what feels like hours. False Prophet continues to rattle off diagnostics but I'm not really paying attention – I'm too busy thinking about how I just escaped Heaven or Hell by the skin of my teeth, not even a week after I checked back into the mortal realm. My heartbeat's still escalated but at least there's a steady rhythm to it now.

I flop my head to the side again, stare at my arm. There's nothing unusual about it. The nano-weave has fallen back to sleep, and there's no sign of the hideous deformities from before.

Jesus help me, that was even worse than when the suit was infested by the Ceph virus back in the Big Apple. That one nearly killed me, too, although it sure as shit didn't paint my second skin the color of a bruised plum.

When I'm strong enough to move my limbs again, I roll over and rise to my hands and knees. Though my arms quake under my weight, they don't fold. I can't feel my muscles. Maybe my nerves are shot from the viral onslaught, or maybe SECOND took mercy on me and activated the suit's pain inhibitors. My shotgun, having slipped off at some point during my spasming, sits a foot away. I snatch it back up after a few more long moments of recovering.

Wait. Where's Chino?

Suddenly I have the strength to be on my feet. Thankfully it doesn't take me long to find him – all the bigger rocks near the railroad were brushed out of the way a long time ago, so my fellow jarhead sticks out like a sore thumb amongst his smaller cousins.

I discover after scooping him into my armored hand that I'm not the only one who's just had it rough. The rain is melting the smirk off his face as though he's the Wicked Witch of the West, and I watch, transfixed, as the berry juice runs like bad mascara. I swear it looks like he's frowning at me, silently asking why this is happening to us.

My response is to embrace him as tightly as possible without grinding him into pebbles. I don't know, buddy. I don't know. For now, I'm just glad to be alive.

Blinking back a building well of hot tears, I only pay half-attention when False Prophet breaks the news:

"EXPANDED VIRAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE. NO TERRESTRIAL MATCH FOUND. UNKNOWN RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPE LOCATED. POSSIBILITY OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL ORIGIN: 76.3%. ESTIMATED SIMILARITY TO MANHATTAN VIRUS: 49.8%."

(Two Hours Later)

Keep walking, Alcatraz. That's it. One foot in front of the other. Your screaming earlier probably alerted every sapient creature within a two-mile radius, so you really have no choice but to bite the bullet and keep moving forward.

Also, don't look down.

I look down anyway. I can't see the bottom of the gorge through the swirling mist, even with my binoculars. Still looks deep enough to splatter me into nano-goop on impact, however.

I glance up at the suspension bridge's rusted support beams, mentally debating the foundation's integrity and whether or not I'm simply imagining the creaking sound whenever a breeze passes through. The rain shower petered out an hour ago, paving the way for a blanket of thick fog to roll in and take its place. I have no idea how much farther the bridge will go on before I'm back on solid ground. Hopefully not too much, because I don't feel the slightest bit safe standing on this giant metal deathtrap.

Chino gets a crack in at how I'm supposed to be afraid of water, not heights. He shuts his trap after I remind him of his embarrassing blunder during skydiving practice and offer him a chance to redeem himself.

More walking. The silence (or perhaps the lack of silence, because I definitely heard the bridge groan this time) is making me restless.

Did some disgruntled ex-CryNet employee place a curse on the Nanosuit? Did I do something so inescapably evil during my first life that God saw fit to punish me by making every day of my second life as physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing as possible? Is that why I've been going through so much shit lately? Or am I just having the worst streak of bad luck ever recorded?

No, it can't be that – otherwise I never would've gotten out of the facility. Must be divine retribution, then.

Still though, another alien virus? Here? Are you shitting me?

The scraps of information SECOND was able to compile paints a grim picture. Unlike the Manhattan Virus, which originated from Ceph spires and spread in the form of clouds and ropy tendrils composed of solid biological matter, this new virus is nearly untraceable unless you happen to be carrying a Geiger counter on your person. Being a partially radioactive material by nature, it also sticks around a lot longer than the New York version; the air around me is still saturated, even though it's been over two hours since I was incapacitated and staring at death's door.

That's not even the fun part. To add diarrhea icing on top of the shit cake, Manhattan Virus 2: Electric Boogaloo has highly mutagenic properties. It's capable of infecting, destroying, and replacing tissue on a cellular level, which kind of explains why my nanites reacted so badly after contact – they're infused with a normally organic being.

They adapted and contained the virus in the end, sure, but the damage had already been done by then. A normal person wouldn't have stood a chance. For fuck's sake, it almost succeeded in killing me!

The biggest unanswered question is, why deploy a new and improved super-virus here of all places, in the middle of a forest that – if you don't count the Dolls – is more devoid of life than a morgue? Is this a secret R&D site where the Squiddies tested out new toys before unleashing them on us unsuspecting backbones? Was there an accidental detonation?

So many questions, so few answers. Even less ways to get those answers. Perhaps I'd be able to wring an explanation out of a Sangvis facility worker, if any survived the purge and I somehow manage to get my hands on one.

Chino, the realistic bastard, points out how astronomically low the odds of that happening are. I fire back that unless he has any better ideas, he can stuff his facts up his-

Oh, look, I've reached the end of the bridge.

"About time," I mutter under my breath as I jog the last few meters onto sweet, sweet land. No way I'm crossing that thing again if I can help it.

To my left is a natural wall of solid rock, roughly twice my height in size, while the right opens up to more scattered trees shrouded in white haze. I slow my jogging pace to a brisk walk, thinking that it's probably early evening by now and that I should begin seeking shelter soon.

Sometimes I wonder if Nanosuit 2.0 is so filled to the brim with innovative software that CryNet's engineers had no room to throw in a damn clock.

Hold on, what's that up ahead?

I sacc' the cloak icon, disappear into the mist like Slenderman. There's a soft click as I disengage the Marshall's safety before creeping up on something big and boxy that's blocking the path forward.

Whoa. This is new.

It's a flipped over caboose, painted white with a blue stripe circled around it, laying diagonally on the tracks in a manner reminiscent of a beached whale. It's obviously been here for quite a while – tall grasses sway around its corpse, and even through the fog I can see the metal framework on the underside is rusted beyond repair.

I return to the visible spectrum, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. Not a Doll checkpoint – just your everyday, run-of-the-mill train wreck.

Working my way around it, I discover a lot more wreckage waiting for me. It seems the whole freight train was somehow derailed halfway into entering a hand-carved tunnel; shipping containers in every color of the rainbow are scattered around the tracks like leaves in autumn. I'm not sure what cargo they were carrying, although I do see at least one overturned petrol car that miraculously hasn't fireballed.

It's like a giant tried to cram his toy train set inside the tunnel all at once instead of inserting them one at a time. My inner child, oblivious to the dark implications here, squees at how cool it is.

He only quiets down after I reach the tunnel's entrance and find out it's clogged with collapsed rubble and twisted heaps of broken steel. No going that way unless I want to spend hours' worth of time and energy clearing it away – which I don't.

I look back at the displaced train cars. I look at one in particular that's resting pretty close to the cliffside. Hmm…

Stowing the shotgun as I approach the car, I make sure Chino's safely in my grip, crank up strength mode, and launch myself onto it with one good leap. The vibrations of my boots hitting metal echo through the surrounding forest. Then, without missing a beat, I break into a run and power jump a second time onto the lip of the cliff.

Still no idea where I'm going, but at least this is progress, right?

I leave the train tracks behind to follow a short trail through the vegetation. It ends abruptly after a minute's walk, cutting off at a short drop that opens up to a large, open expanse of land.

There are signs of habitation here.

Human habitation.

I proc the visor, zoom in on what appear to be buildings a couple hundred meters ahead. It's hard to tell for certain with the fog, but they're definitely manmade structures, and most importantly, their shapes don't match any Sangvis architecture I'm familiar with.

Plus, well, I can't imagine Dolls would take up farming. The edge of the path dumps me into a cornfield, or at least what's left of one; there's nothing left but the dead husks of crops that bristle and snap as I brush past them, following a collapsed irrigation line towards what I hope is a human settlement.

It is… Or rather, it was.

Maybe it was a quaint little farmhouse once upon a time, but in the present day it's little more than a skeleton composed of charred wood. All the furniture inside has been burnt to ashes, while the few odd appliances that haven't been melted were left to the mercy of the elements, and that's not even getting into the lack of electricity. In other words, I don't think that dish washer would work even if I found a plate that hasn't been smashed to bits.

A small sigh escapes me. So much for having an actual bed to sleep in tonight…

It's not all bad news, however. There's a fully intact barn to the right of the house's remains, flanked by a pair of tall grain silos. A shed sits on the opposite side, doors slightly ajar. To top it all off, a cursory investigation of the house's exterior uncovers the entrance to a wine cellar hidden under some broken foundation.

I leave Chino there, deciding to save it for later and check the shed first.

Let's see what we've got here: rusty tractor, old workbench, boatloads of tools both electrically and non-electrically powered… lots of stuff in general I could find a use for later. I move to search the barn next, making a mental list of which items I need most.

There's plenty to smell when I swing the door open – I ask SECOND to turn off my scent filters – but not a lot to see. Skeletons of livestock over patches of hay. Spilled buckets of cattle feed. Zombie gurgling at me in the corner. A ladder leading to a second-story loft. I wonder if that's where they keep the-

Wait.

I shut the door.

Was that a…? Naaahhhh. The virus must have a hallucinogenic side effect, because there's no way I actually saw a zombie in there. Zombies aren't real. They only exist in Fictionland, in movies and video games and those annual "Costume Walk to Cure Cancer" events. In fact, since I'm so confident I didn't just see a zombie, I'm going to enter the barn again and put this madness in my head to rest once and for all.

I open the door.

The zombie lays its empty eye sockets on me and rasps louder.

Oh.

Well… shit.

While I'm still trying to wrap my head around this new development (What kind of bizarro future is this abljxknrthbt), SECOND conducts a biological scan of my fellow undead, translating the accumulated data into words and feeding it directly to my visual cortex.

So this is what happens when a defenseless human is exposed to this new super-virus. Poor bastard's pumping out radiation faster than YouTube creates new content restrictions. The zombie's skin, a mottled mess of siliconized lattice and green-yellow snot pustules, is covered by the weathered remnants of a red plaid shirt and a pair of overalls. Internal scans show that rigor mortis has partially set in, reflected in the slow, shambling movements it's making.

Most eye-catching is the infection of the cerebrum. The brain's frontal lobe has been – I don't know. Hijacked, I guess would be the right word. There are no cognitive thoughts going on in the walker's dome other than 'move forward' and 'attack'.

The zombie picks up speed, staggering towards me with its bony fingers outstretched, probably itching to rip my helmet open so it can get to the delicious brains inside. I draw the Marshall, though instead of taking aim, I flip it around and hold it by the barrel like an oversized club.

Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, hey batter batter…

When the undead creature is within arm's reach, I pump strength into my muscles and swing for the fences.

CRACK!

Unlike the Scout drone at the facility, the zombie is nowhere near fast enough to dodge and takes a speeding buttstock right where its nose should be. Nearly a home run, too: It flies almost to the other side of the barn and hits the dirt, lying prone on its back. It moves to rise almost immediately – which is disconcerting, because a blow like that would've given a normal person a concussion, if not straight-up kill them – but I've already closed the distance by then, stomping my boot on its chest before a point-blank blast of buckshot bursts its head open like a grape. Brain ichor and fragments of bone splatter over the N2's surface.

I am Alky, Slayer of Ceph, the Android Annihilator, Rock Whisperer, and now Zombie Hunter.

The new addition to my growing list of titles doesn't bring me any joy, though. That was an honest-to-god zombie. Zombies are real. Zombies now exist in this world alongside malevolent space aliens and killer sex robots.

…Is it too late to go back in the cryo-pod?

(Nightfall)

"No, really, because the Ceph and Sangvis Ferri weren't enough?" I rant as I pace back and forth several hours later, sometime after Sol traded its perch in the sky with Luna. "Zombies… You gotta be fucking kidding me, man. What's the deal with that shit, huh? Could the world not settle on which apocalypse it wanted and decided, 'Meh, I'll just throw in a little bit of everything'?"

From his spot on the candlelit coffee table, Chino says he's not sure why this is happening either.

I take another gulp of whiskey straight from the bottle. "Didn't think you'd know," I reply after licking the aftertaste off my lips.

The farmhouse's cellar in one word: goldmine. It's surprisingly spacious down here, possibly since it's furnished more like a man cave than a place dedicated to storing booze. That's not to say there isn't plenty of the stuff – quite the opposite, in fact. I'd raided the racks propped against the far side of the wall before I even memorized the space's layout. Came away with an aged whiskey bottle that's already two-thirds empty; the aftertaste is kinda weird but it's still perfectly drinkable. Hopefully my upgraded liver can handle alcohol poisoning, because your boy is planning to get face-down sloshed tonight.

Let me clarify something here: I'm only drinking to celebrate my newfound sanctuary. Not to forget the three crude grave markers I'd discovered behind the barn shortly after I offed the previous owner.

Besides the booze racks, the cellar also comes with a ratty old couch, complete with beat-up pillows and a thick, scratchy blanket; similar to the ones issued by the U.S. military. (It's even got the same olive drab color scheme, which makes me wonder about the farmer dude's life before his zombification.) There's a heater I managed to jury rig into working condition using some spare parts from the shed. There's also an ancient TwenCen television parallel to the couch that won't turn on, and a small back area where all sorts of miscellaneous junk is squirreled away.

Found a kids' sized trampoline and some dolls when I checked it out earlier. The toys, not the androids. Took a long drink from the bottle after remembering the graves.

"Yeah, you're right about that." Feeling the exasperation wear off, I adjust the collar of my shirt, meeting Chino's smirk with a rare one of my own. "Feels good to not be running around naked anymore. I promise to never bitch about clothes shopping again."

Yep, I'm no longer a shameless streaker when I'm not in suit form. The couch and TV are separated from the back area by a ceiling-high shelf jam packed with cardboard boxes and big plastic bins, and I'd managed to scrounge up a set of clothes my size during my pilfering. I'm now dressed in a dark green flannel shirt, faded blue overalls with the hoops wrapped like a belt around my waist, and rugged brown work boots caked with dried mud.

I probably look like Leavenworth on furlough but I can't find it in me to care. Whatever gets rid of the breeze between my knees is good enough for me.

I plop down on the couch, reach for the cereal box next to Chino and pour myself a bowl of trail mix. That's right: Casa de Alky also has a sizeable selection of preserved foods. This cellar I've made into my hidey-hole is the most wonderful place I've been to since I set foot on the Swordfish. The cathedral where I blew up CELL's ammo dump is a close second.

The cellar, after all, doesn't have trigger-happy mercs waiting outside.

After washing down my meal of granola and dried fruit with the last of the whiskey, I pick up the cereal box and shake it at Chino. "Hungry, bro? Last chance before I put it away."

He declines as always, though he does ask if I have more berry juice to fix his smeared face.

"Sorry, not right now. We'll go out first thing tomorrow morning and find some. You cool with that?" He responds in the affirmative, and I smile fondly. "Awesome. You and me, man, we're going to make it through this, rah? We'll find Gould and Alice and all the others, come hell or high water."

Or zombies, Chino adds. Or Dolls. Or Ceph. Heck, why not throw in CELL while we're at it?

I laugh. "Let 'em come. If they're stupid enough to get between a couple of jarheads and their mission, then that's their fault." My expression grows solemn. "Let's just hope our friends back home haven't been infected…"

Stop. Don't dwell on that, Alcatraz. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Earlier today I was a corpse on railroad tracks, and now my luck's gone and done a full one-eighty. Your negativity, the what-ifs, the chaotic world outside this little slice of safety – don't let those things ruin the moment.

I've never been Mr. Positive; that was Sing Sing's job. Still, I can't deny it's getting harder to find a reason to be optimistic when each new bad discovery I make trumps the last one.

The springs in the couch squeak in protest as I lay myself across it, still fully clothed, then pull the blanket over my shoulders. I crane my neck over to the coffee table and blow out the single candle illuminating the cellar. The lavender scent it's giving off makes my nostrils itch.

"Sleep tight, buddy. Yeah, yeah… I'll get properly drunk tomorrow, don't you worry."

I hear a voice in my head whisper You'll find them as I drift off to sleep. It sounds kinda like Chino.

(Midnight)

Crash. Shriek. A faint repetitive noise somewhere far away. Gunfire? Can't really tell; I'm still too groggy to make it out.

Something thuds overhead.

Instantly awake. I'm out of bed in a second and have my shotgun ready by the next, eyes glued to the ceiling, breath stuck in my throat. What the hell was that?

My skin is almost completely smothered by nano-knotted muscles and titanium framework when suddenly – rrriiiiip. I look down and utter a curse; it somehow slipped my mind that N2 isn't meant to be worn under clothes, and I hastily reverse the transformation before my shirt and boots are torn apart at the seams.

Great, so I have to strip naked every time I need the suit. Whatever. I can deal with it. In battle, dignity is often the first casualty.

I throw my clothes on the couch, swap the birthday suit for the combat suit, then fasten on the Jaeger's cloak. I curse again when the cellar door, which mustn't have seen a drop of oil for ages, opens with an aggravatingly loud creeeak, which probably alerts whatever's out there that its prey has taken the bait. My invisibility cloak is pulled up out of reflex.

There's no sign of any disturbances outside. A stiff breeze rustles the leaves and dead crop husks. Slivers of moonlight cut through the clouds but it's still too dark to see clearly, even with my binocs. Capacitors are running low so I decloak, let it charge back up. Nothing attacks me when I reappear.

Forcing down the discomfort brewing in my gut, I trigger one of the suit's lesser used functions:

"NANOVISION ENABLED."

The world around me shifts to hues of gray and deep blue. I zoom in again, panning the terrain with thermal, half-wondering in the back of my mind whether I really am going insane and if I'm starting to hear things that aren't-

There. Ten o'clock from my FOV, skirting the border between the tree line and the cornfield. Three- scratch that, four- six heat signatures barreling through the vegetation at full speed. I can tell even from this far away that one of the red blobs is human-shaped. The five chasing it, on the other hand, are moving in a manner that looks eerily familiar – I'm scratching my brain trying to remember where I've seen movement patterns like that before, but no dice; my memory's simply not what it used to be.

I switch off thermal and glance down at my shotgun, internally debating what to do. Likeliest scenario here is that a squabble between Sangvis and Griffin wandered into my territory, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing depending on the circumstances. Griffin could be friendly, but I have no proof that they are or if they're even an involved party here, so I'm not about to mindlessly rush in to provide aid. Also, those pursuers don't move like any Sangvis Dolls I've seen.

Maybe I should stay concealed, sneak closer, get a little more intel before making a move. Alternatively, I could just ignore it. Blockade the cellar's stairwell and try to catch a few more z's. …What? It's not like I have a personal stake here.

And of course, the universe feels obligated to prove me wrong out of some misguided sense of spite.

I hear it before I see it: footsteps crunching on gravel approaching from my three o'clock. There's a hydraulic sound to them, a mechanical sound, and they're coming fast.

I turn and barely catch sight of a blade whistling towards my head; max armor's already on by the time it connects with my schnoz, though the suddenness of the attack combined with the amount of power behind it shoves me back ten feet and knocks the Marshall out of my grip. I shake my head, clearing away the dizziness just as my unknown foe closes the distance for a follow-up strike, pouncing at me with an otherworldly chittering sound I'd recognize anywhere.

This time I'm prepared for it. My back hits the ground a moment before the thing takes my head off; I catch its spindly midsection with both feet and throw it behind me mid-somersault. It lands perfectly upright, like a fucking gymnast, staring me down with too many eyes and chittering away while I'm scrambling to get into a proper fighting stance. Moonlight reflects off my attacker's pitted amor, finally allowing me to get a good look at it.

"Well, well…" I smirk under my helmet. "I was wondering if I'd see you space punks again. How've you been, Squiddie? Miss me?"

The Ceph Stalker's response is to crouch low and roar at me, jelly tentacles flailing in anticipation.

The arm blades are a new addition and the creature's exoskeleton is dented and dirty in spots, but there's no possibly mistaking it for anything else. To be totally honest, I'm not actually all that surprised to see a Stalker again – I had my suspicions ever since FAL made an offhand comment mentioning them yesterday. Guess Prophet missed a few nests during his crusade.

Really also puts into perspective how science-fiction-esque my life has gotten when I can look at a superior being from the far reaches of the cosmos and think, This is normal.

I'm snapped out of my nostalgic musing when Ayy Lmao brandishes its swords and charges me a third time. I draw the Nova as I sidestep away from an x-shaped slash; with no better opportunity to counterattack than right now, I fire into the Stalker as fast as I can pull the trigger, landing several clean hits on the exposed pink jelly at its back.

The Ceph unit reels but doesn't go down, whirling around to slice at me again. I'm too slow to backpedal away – the tip of the blade slashes across my chest, depleting the last of the energy keeping my armor up. I empty the rest of the mag into the Stalker, slowly advancing backwards until BUD highlights the discarded shotgun out of the corner of my eye. I stow my pistol, move to grab it, but the Stalker has already recovered and leaps at me like an overexcited large breed after you come home from an all-nighter at the office. It tackles me to the ground, traps my midsection under its weight.

I'm left staring helmet-to-helmet with Squiddie, my cycloptic visor meeting two dense clusters of burning orange eyes. The message in them is abundantly clear: "You gonna die now, sucka."

Then it tries to shishkebab me. I'm having flashbacks of Executioner as I struggle to break free from where I'm pinned while simultaneously dodging the stabby things seeking my faceplate. My energy supply looks like it'll hold for a few seconds so I crank up the armor again, then reach for my shotgun while Squiddie is busy delivering the beat-down. Even under the suit I can feel each point of impact as the Stalker alternates between slashes and stabs, hellbent on chipping away at my armor until the reserves run dry and I'm left vulnerable again.

The attacks come so hard and so rapidly that Nanosuit 2's almost depleted by the time my hand closes around a familiar metal buttstock. Then they cease when I bring it down on the Stalker's head with a loud, echoing clang, dazing the creature long enough for me to finally wrestle it loose and get some breathing room. I whack it again, same place, same method, then use the energy I have left to supercharge my fist and strike it under the jaw in a terrific uppercut.

The Stalker hurtles away from me, only this time it doesn't stick the landing. We both get to our feet; when our gazes lock on to one another a second time, I'm greeted by a blobby face that bears an uncanny resemblance to Deadpool.

Huh, that doesn't happen very often. I forgot that's what Ceph look like under the helmets.

Smiling under my own helmet, I beckon it to come forward and attack me. It obliges, somehow screeching despite having no mouth, bull rushing me with no care about self-preservation. Like a wild animal. Feral, even.

Right as the Stalker gets into range, right as it rears its blades back for another x-slash, a bang from the Marshall explodes its jelly head. The rest of its squishy body follows suit, rupturing and spraying alien goo all over the place. Its empty exoskeleton collapses to the ground with a crash.

I eject the spent shell with a shit-eating grin. How's it feel to get your ass whooped by a primitive backbone, you slimy space fuck?

The grin disappears when I suddenly hear more chittering.

That's the thing about Stalkers: While they're not much of a threat one-on-one (to someone with a fancy Nanosuit, anyway), they make up for their individual frailty by traveling in packs. And it seems like I've just pissed off the rest by killing the alpha.

Ceph practically pour out of the woodwork, emerging from the cornfield, the surrounding forest, everywhere in between – one even peeks down at me from the barn's roof before leaping in to join the fray. There must be a dozen of the damn things, all charging me at once with reckless abandon, bladed arms outstretched in a bastardized version of the Naruto run.

Come at me, motherfuckers. Do your worst. I've killed hives full of you freaks and I won't hesitate to mop up whatever Prophet left over.

There was this one bucktoothed marine I met in New York, Hank I think his name was, who compared me to hell on wheels whenever I get serious. Now, surrounded on all sides by feral aliens who have it out for me, I find I can't disagree with him.

I fight like a demon. I blast Stalkers away before they get close, punching the lights out of the ones who do manage to get inside my personal space. I use my bare hands to tear out their jelly whenever applicable. I rip fleshy tentacles out of backs and mechanical limbs from their sockets; I skewer my adversaries from the stars with their own blades. When the Marshall runs dry, I forego reloading in favor of throwing the bastards into each other.

A few years on ice has done absolutely nothing to dampen my capability against the Ceph. I'm… I'm fucking into it right now, I fight like it's the good old days, when my biggest problem was coping with the fact that I'd become a hyper-lethal walking corpse. The days when Jack Hargreave waxed philosophy at the most inopportune moments and Dolls didn't exist.

Currently, however, there's no sinister plot to strip me from the N2. No giant alien lithostructures the size of Lockhart's ego pumping viral spores into the atmosphere. None of that bullshit. Just me, a bunch of angry Ceph, and a good ol' tussle.

After what feels like an eternity of fighting but in reality is only two and a half minutes, the last of the Stalkers dies after I jam my sidearm in the space between its helmet and chest armor and dump the remainder of the mag into its soft neck. I kick the corpse away, N2 absorbing the jelly splattered across my front into its deep layer. It's kind of a pointless feature by now, especially since the suit has a complete compendium of alien DNA in its database, but I'm left clean as a whistle in the carnage's aftermath.

I sigh into the quiet of night. As much fun as reliving the old days was, I still have no clue what brought those Stalkers to my refuge. On that note, what happened to the humanoid shape I saw on thermal? If they were being chased by the Stalkers, then where did-

Something screeches and rams into me for- what is this, the fourth time?

I'm thrown to the ground for the umpteenth time this night, pitted against a Stalker that must've been waiting until I let me guard down to spring its ambush. It lifts both segmented arms high; I grab where its hands should be as it's in the middle of bringing them down, using all my strength to keep those oversized machetes – which are only an inch away from me – from penetrating my faceplate and poking my eyes out.

N2 can only match the alien in an arm wrestling contest so long as it has energy to spare. I watch from the corner of my eye as the power bar slowly creeps down, knowing full well I'll be in hot water once the tank hits empty. I struggle, squirm, try to slip away, but the Stalker is too strong. The alien machine is practically straddling me – all it has to do is slightly reposition itself to foil each escape attempt.

The suit's almost out of juice; I'm basically running on fumes. Fuck… What do I do?!

Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Nothing, apparently. Someone else has it covered.

Cracks of suppressed automatic gunfire reach my ears. The Stalker jerks in place, shudders briefly, then slumps on top of me like it's trying to give me a hug. I absently push it off, then vigorously shake my head, my mind occupied wondering where the hell that last-second assistance came from.

I'm so confused by what just happened that it doesn't initially register when a hand appears in front of me, offering to help me up. I take it without thinking, letting my mystery rescuer assist me to my feet.

Only when I'm upright does it finally begin to sink in: I was in legitimate danger just then. That Stalker almost gutted me. Someone noticed I was in trouble and came to help.

Someone came to help me.

"Um… are you alright?" a soft voice, a female one, asks hesitantly.

I snap my head down to face her. Long black hair with a green fringe, fair skin, eyes the color of milk chocolate. Pair of military headphones, which is odd since she only looks to be about sixteen. She's wearing a skull bandana over a sleeveless black turtleneck; there's a green armband with a symbol I don't recognize around her upper left arm. Her legs are mostly concealed under a khaki jacket, tied around her waist by the sleeves. She's got a carbine in one hand.

She looks down, cheeks flushing red, subtly reminding me that I'm still holding her other hand. I trace my eyes down the length of her arm and see-

Black metal-

Mechanical feet-

Doll-!

N2's already feeding potential close-combat techniques into my brain, even while it's presently numb with shock. Muscles, organic and synthetic, tense in preparation for battle, ready to act the moment she makes a move the suit perceives as hostile. SECOND has already calculated eleven different ways to dismantle her before she can react – and the list grows longer with each passing moment.

CONK!

And for some reason I eschew all those options in favor of headbutting her.

She hits the ground like a ton of bricks, knocked out cold. Her carbine comes to rest beside her. Unable to let my guard down out of sheer paranoia, I activate the tac visor and have BUD run a scan:

Elite Tactical Doll M4A1

Manufacturer: UNKNOWN

Status: PRESUMED FRIENDLY

Combat Analysis: 86.3% CHANCE OF NON-HOSTILE INTENT

Further information unavailable

I feel a wave of guilt crash into me as I close the visor. Oh... So it's true, then. This Doll was only trying to lend me a hand, and how did I repay her kindness? By ramming my skull into hers.

Heh heh. Uhhh…

Oops.

Alcatraz… I love you, man, but sometimes you can be a total moron.

In case anyone is wondering: Yes, it was ELID that almost killed him. Before anyone asks: No, he can't synthesize a cure for it, unlike the Manhattan virus. Unless he injects himself with the "Beilan Iteration" (which doesn't exist) to finish the creation of a vaccine, the most his body can do is adapt itself so it won't be affected by further exposure.

"Alcatraz cures ELID" is an interesting plot idea, but it's ultimately one I'll have to leave on the shelf for now.