Mark and Stephen had made it around the Sector by the time the others exited the Sector. It was nearing dark. Mark stood when he saw them coming. However, his spirits fell as they approached. He ran at them, leaving Stephen behind. "Put her down!" he yelled at Gabe, who was carrying the unmoving body of Phoebe.
"Mark-" Byron started to say.
"Put her down!" Mark repeated, louder. Gabe did so, and Mark kneeled by her body. He could see that she was breathing, but just barely. Her face contorted, seemingly in pain."
"What did you do?" Mark shouted at Byron, looking up.
"I did nothing," Byron said, "It was-"
"Stop!" Mark stood, "You're killing her!"
"No, I'm not, Mark."
"What did you do?!"
"I swear, I did nothing, Mark. I tried to-"
"You're lying!" Mark's lighter was in his hand in an instant, a spark struck, the flame dancing angrily across his palm.
"Kaytlen," said Byron calmly. A girl stepped forward. Mark let the fire race towards Byron. However, before it could reach him, a stream of water hit it, allowing it to go no further. Mark looked over and saw the new girl, Kaytlen, shooting a river from her hands.
"I did nothing, Mark," Byron repeated, "She was shot. Sector Zero has come up with some sort of technology that is able to overpower our abilities and paralyze us."
"I don't believe you," Mark said, keeping the fire blasting towards him.
"Why not? I don't have any reason to hurt her."
"You want to hurt me."
"No, Mark, I don't. Believe me, I don't."
Mark brought the flames back, but still kept a blaze in his hand. "How do we wake her up?"
"Under normal circumstances, I'm not sure it would be possible," Byron said. "But I think I know a person who can help. Thankfully, they're rather close."
"Who?"
"My mother."

Phoebe couldn't move. That was all she knew. She could barely process what was happening. She saw light and faces around her. She saw fire, heard yelling. She couldn't interpret what was going on.
Then she saw darkness. But only for an instant, for she regained consciousness in what seemed like a microsecond. She saw a face hovering over hers. It was Mark.
The thought would have brought tears to Phoebe's eyes, had she been able to produce any. If only Mark knew that she loved him.
But would that be good, though? Would it be good for him to know?
That was why Phoebe hadn't told him. But, now, as she watched Mark watch over her, she wished that she had. She probably wouldn't wake up, wouldn't ever be able to move again. Soon she would die of starvation, and leave Mark in the dark.

Mark couldn't sleep that night; he knew he wouldn't. He had been sitting over Phoebe all night. Byron had walked off somewhere, Mark didn't care where. Mark wondered how the others could sleep, when something like this had happened.
Maybe he was being too judgmental. He wasn't able to sleep because he was worried about Phoebe. The others didn't care for her as much as he did, and their day had been physically tasking.
But he hadn't been able to tell her that he loved her. Did he intend to ever do so? Or was he just too cowardly to?
Byron had said that his mother might be able to help Phoebe.
For Byron's sake, Mark hoped he was right.

President Xandar looked over the long table of squabbling governors, silent. They had been shocked by the death of Williard Poore, and were now split on whether or not to kill the Unnatural. Xandar smiled from the corner, as he usually did. He enjoyed watching the Council fight. They were so insignificant, it made Xandar want to laugh. They thought they were in control, but they were no more than puppets. Xandar's plan could not, would not, be manipulated. And now, with the construction of Sector Nine underway, he had never been closer to achieving his goals.
Soon he would be back where he belonged, and, soon, he would have his revenge.
He turned, slipping out of the room unnoticed by the Council and the guards standing by the door. He stalked down the halls, silent as the darkness itself. He walked the halls of his mansion, quiet, alone.
Alone, as always. But not for long. Once Stage One was complete, Xandar would be well on his way back to the one he loved.
Xandar opened a door. He stepped through it and into a small, kitchen-like area. He reached up and opened a cabinet, pulling out a cup. He gently laid it down on a counter, sliding open a drawer at the same time, pulling out a spoon. He set that down next to the cup and walked over to a doorway, this one opening into a pantry. He examined the contents for a moment. He found what he was seeking. He reached down, grabbing the round, cylindrical container.
Xandar did so love hot chocolate.

"We must be careful," Byron said the next day as they reached Sector Seven. It was around one or two in the afternoon, "There are more of us now; we'll attract attention."
"Can't you just do that mind-concealment thing?" Mark asked.
"With us carrying a body? No, we'll need to find some sort of vehicle to take."
Suddenly, something exploded ahead of them. Smoke billowed into the air.
"What was that?" said Kaytlen.
"I don't know," said Byron, who burst forth, running. The others took off after him. Soon they were in the middle of a suburban area, but the place was barren. Nobody was out, and the homes looked desolate and unkept, like nobody had lived there for a while. Byron ignored this, though, and kept running forward. He had a bad feeling of what had happened. He ran and ran, the others following behind him, until he suddenly stopped before turning around a corner.
"Go up," he whispered. Mark looked at him, puzzled. Byron ran back and started climbing stairs that led to the roof of a nearby apartment. The others understood and started following him. When they had reached the top, Byron cautiously looked over the edge. What he saw horrified him. Below were hundreds of soldiers surrounding a crowd of people who stood in straight lines, as if organized in such a fashion.
"They've taken control of the Sector," Byron gasped, "But why? Who ordered this?"
"I did!" came a high voice from behind them. Byron jumped and looked behind him. There, in a long, black trench coat stood the strange man that they had encountered in Sector Four. Byron stood, ready to fight. This man had unnerved him heavily the last time they had met, and Byron knew there was a reason. Again, when Byron tried to look into the man's head, he found nothing. It was as if this man didn't have a memory at all, no identity to speak, or even think, of.
"What are you doing here?" said Byron.
"Watching my plan unfold," he said, "Which it is doing gloriously."
"You caused this?"
"Absolutely."
"You ordered soldiers to take over my home?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Let's just say," the man said, smirking, "I have my reasons."
Byron screamed and leaped for the man, but he suddenly wasn't there. When Byron stood, he saw the man kneeling over Phoebe's body.
"My, my," he said, "You're in quite a predicament, aren't you?"
"What makes you say that?" said Byron. Mark leapt at the man, but in vain, for he wasn't there. He was standing behind Byron now.
"I could help you, you know," the man said.
"This is helping us?" said Byron, turning to face the man, "making the military take control of us? Who are you?"
"I've been called by many names in the past," the man said, beginning to pace across the roof. By now the Unnatural were as tense as possible, ready to leap into action against this man.
"Evan was my birth name," he continued, "But after that I became several people. I've been called a monster, unnatural, mutant. But your people know me by a different name. You all know who I am, but you've never seen me. I work in the dark, pulling the strings you puppets lean on for support."
"Who?"
"In this Nation, in this world," the man continued, "I prefer to keep my identity a secret."
"However," he said, bowing, "it is a pleasure to meet you, Former Secret Service Agent Byron Peters," he looked up, smirking, "Level Three."
Byron pushed that statement aside.
"You said you could help us," Byron said, "You must know where my mother is."
"Absolutely," the man said, standing back to full height, "And, yes, your mother is safe, for now. She will be willing to help you when you find her."
"I assume she's at our home?"
"Yes, she is."
"Then we'll head there now."
"But, my friend, you're already there!" the man said, laughing.
Byron looked over the roof again, seeing that there was no army, no captives, beneath them, but, instead, a familiar street. The street that led to his house.
"How did you-"
"No time for explaining, Byron, the army will make their way here soon enough."
Byron looked at the man, a questioning look in his eye.
"You'll know all soon enough, Byron. But, for now, know that I want you to win. I want you to leave, and I want you to survive."
Byron nodded and began heading for the stairs that led down the roof.
"One last thing, Byron," the man shouted at him, "You will not succeed in your current quest. Your mother will not be able to resurrect your friend. However, you will succeed eventually. And, in the process, you will find and loose the one you once loved again."
Byron looked back at the man. He looked into his eyes for the first time, those yellow, sickly, bloodshot eyes, and said one sentence.
"I've never loved anybody."
The man laughed his giddy laugh, walking backwards towards the edge of the roof.
"I doubt that," he said before stepping backwards off the building.