. . .

When Mick's mother reached out for Cyril again, he had pulled away. This didn't feel right. She thought she was comforting her son. No, he was an imposter. So, he crawled towards the wall near the barred entrance and settled there.

Martha looked a bit hurt by his rejection. "Darlin,' what's wrong?"

"Ah, don't take it personal, Boo," Jonathan reassured. "He doesn't recognize us."

"Mick, you have to remember us!"

"Please don't call me that," Cyril rebutted, before looking away and sulking. "That's not my name and I'm not…your son."

Jonathan was livid, slamming his fists down in the hay. "Those Hydra sonofabitches! I don't care if I'm nearly dead when they finish with me, I'm goin' to drag Gital down to Hell with me! And this time, I'll make sure the job is done right."

"You and what army? As it is, he's wiped out half of the original Valor 12," Martha pointed out.

Having that Mundy stubborn pride, Jonathan refused to believe how powerful his enemy had grown. He was probably beating himself up over his failure of thinking he had killed the psychotic trafficker, molester, and whatever disgusting vice he indulged in.

Lowering his head, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. "This is all my fault. I'm sorry, dearie."

His wife folded her arms. "Well now, it wouldn't be the first time ya botched up somethin' like this; gettin' your poor family involved in one of your screw-ups. Remember you picked out the wrong colors for our campin' tents?"

"Yes, it was one of the worst days of your lives," Jonathan confessed, remorsefully. "I'll never live that day down, even though you absolved me of that horrific mistake. But Mick never did."

"But why let it keep gnawin' at your conscience? I've forgiven you on that one and look! It's never happened again. I suppose I can forgive you on this huge fuck-up."

Glancing pitifully at Cyril, he confessed, "And I'm sorry too, Mickey. If I hadn't thoroughly made sure that Gital was dead, then you and Marth wouldn't be in this mess right now. You may never forgive me for this, but I hope I can…somehow…make it up to you."

Cyril didn't know what to make of his confession. Jonathan bearing his contrite soul wasn't meant for him. But from what he gathered, the elder Mundy blamed himself for their harrowing ordeal. It was all due to his team's failure to stop an evil maniac years ago, who was now terrorizing a part of the United States and its citizens.

"I should've used that bazooka on Gital instead of the RPG," Jonathan muttered. "It might've hit him point blank in the chest instead of missing and hittin' the tunnel ceiling. I thought for sure he had been crushed under all that rubble."

Sighing, Cyril spoke up, "So you failed the first time and now you believe you have blood on your hands because of not properly checking to see if some lunatic was dead. Well…" he turned, glancing directly at the older man. "Are you going to let that one mistake define the rest of your life? Or are you goin' to rise above it and try to somehow rectify the problem? Despite being—" he looked around, indicating their imprisonment "—trapped like a caged rat now? You did what you thought was right at the time."

Jonathan stared at him, nonplussed. There was no sarcasm or hostility in the marksman's words. He truly meant what he said: sympathetic, but firm.

"My boy…ya haven't been overdoin' it on the LSD these hippies' been passin' out like candy, have ya? I was sure you were goin' to crucify me over this!"

Cyril couldn't help but smile - he realized he had more mercy than his counterpart. "Take it as you will." He became pensive. "It's what I would do. Fiat justitia, ruat coelum."

Martha blinked. "What?"

"Did ya just…speak Thai?" Jonathan threw in.

This time, Cyril couldn't suppress a small laugh. "No, it's Latin. It means, 'let justice be done though the heavens fall.' "

Jonathan balked at that. "Since when did ya start gettin' into dead, ancient languages? As it is, you would skip Spanish class in school."

"It's the principle of the proverb," Cyril explained. "Never stop until the criminal is punished. Even if it's sometimes at the cost of your life. But I'm sure the heavens won't fall just because you go to extremes doing the right thing."

Martha was awed. "I see what ya mean! Justice prevailed when I whacked that mouse to death with the broom! The little shit paid for stealin' Tick's food all the time."

"Uh…not exactly that kind of justice…"

Poor mouse. A typical spring trap would have produced a quicker death.

"Well Mick, if you were studyin' Latino all this time, ya could've atleast mentioned it in our last conversation," Jonathan reminded with a bit of ire.

The marksman was growing flustered at being continually mistaken for the RED Sniper. "Mick isn't my name. It's Cyril."

More stunned silence from the Mundys. A moment later, Martha turned to her husband.

"He…he remembers your pappy's name!"

Jonathan frowned. "So, now he thinks he's his own grandpa?"

The pudgy lady leaned closer to his face in a conspiratorial manner. "Maybe we could humor him until his memory comes back…"

Cyril held up a hand. "Look, Mr. and Mrs. Mundy – you have to understand that I'm not your son. I just happen to look like him. The name 'Cyril' was the first thing that came to my mind when I awoke in the lab—" he stopped short of blurting out the whole truth. "What I'm trying to say is that the real Mick is still out there – fighting in the Gravel Wars."

Atleast, he hoped the last part was true. For all he knew, Gital's cronies could have captured the RED assassin by now.

Jonathan sadly shook his head. "Poor, poor Mickey. Whatever Gital did to ya, I just hope it ain't permanent."

"What matters right now is that we're all together," Martha brightly added. "So glad that whole cancer farce wasn't real! For awhile, they had us fooled good!"

Cyril was feeling worn out and decided to take a nap. He would have to deal with this new, crazy predicament later. So, he made himself as comfortable as he could on the hay, laid on his left side and rested his head on an arm. He did feel awful that the senior couple were taken hostage; he didn't know if all of them would get out of this alive. But just his luck that it happened to be an enemy's kin.

One thing he knew in his heart was that Gital and his followers would get their comeuppance. It may not be by his hand, but it would definitely be by another's – someone the ring leader really, really pissed of.

. . .


Cyril was in that one familiar, ethereal dream again. He encountered this strange world before – about four or five times now in the last year – an amalgamation of the battle locations from the Gravel Wars and unknown stretches of land that didn't even remind him of Earth.

The last dream he reunited with a mysterious entity at a fog-covered and silent 2Fort. This time, he had no idea where he was. All he could see was miles of gray-purplish land everywhere, with a few rises over the horizon that indicated knolls or foothills.

The sky was dark with nebula clouds of varying colors. The stars glittered more brightly than normal. No, this didn't feel like Earth…

"Cyril."

Startled at the disembodied voice, he turned to his left. A diminutive being stood just twenty feet away, the illuminated stars reflecting off its bald, grey head and shiny black eyes.

After meeting this one individual several times now, he was getting used to it.

"Hey…" Cyril took a few steps forward. "You never got the chance to tell me the secret I needed to protect. Was it the symbol?"

"Yes, it's one of them. You've heard of us before. Conspiracy theories on your world. Not believed by the public or even most world governments."

"I've heard of you?" Cyril racked his mind for any important clues as to what this entity was alluding to. All those articles he read in National Geographic. The quirky sci-fi and horror shows of the 1950s. It looked just like…

"G—Grey!" He couldn't believe it. "You're one of those aliens, aren't you?"

"I am."

"So, you've been watching us for a long time."

"We have."

"The symbol…what does it mean?"

"Dichotomy…duality."

Cyril tried to comprehend. "Duality…a contrast of two things?"

"Yes. It's one ideology that has defined my people since the beginning of our existence. It represents a balance between two very similar, but primarily different things. Think of the Yin and Yang concept from China or the Gemini myth from ancient Greece. Two identical but opposing forces. Always interconnected. Neither overtaking the other's existence."

Finally, Cyril found out what Dr. Norad and the other scientists were too reluctant to reveal. They had made an oath not to disclose their employer's secrets, so it should be no surprise. Still, he strongly felt that all clones had every damn right to know their origins; even if it was tied to an extraterrestrial presence.

"There will be danger you cannot avoid. But…it can be stopped."

"Yeah, I think I know what you mean. The Hydra Ring."

The Grey was solemn. "Not just Hydra. More threats are to come."

Before he could further ask for details, a large and sharp object that resembled a glowing green knife plunged through the Grey's chest. It let out a gurgling cry, black blood dripping from its mouth.

Alarmed, Cyril stepped back as another 'knife' emerged, this time from the alien's abdomen; it sliced across and spilled out its guts. Suddenly, a swarm of shining green beings with multiple appendages appeared out of nowhere and began attacking Cyril.

Naturally, his survival instinct kicked in and he furiously fought back. Their stabs and punches were too quick, strong, and painful. It felt like burning acid.

"OH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK-"

Desperately, he managed to produce his Bushwacka and started slashing at them in a frenzied melee. But each time he cut through the multitude of bodily weapons, they just regrouped and continued their relentless assault.

Several of them deeply stabbed him in the abdomen, neck, and legs. It hurt so badly, he screamed.

"Mick!" a voice called out.

Barely hearing it, he continued thrashing and fighting for his life. At this point, the nightmare about being stuck in the snow was preferable to this one.

"Mickey dearie!" the voice repeated, this time it was distinctly female.

He abruptly awoke from the dream. "NO!"

The malevolent monsters were gone. Heavily panting and still full of adrenaline, he realized where he was.

"Are ya okay, darlin'?" Martha had gathered his head and neck on her lap, stroking his hair.

It felt surprisingly nice, but also unsettling. He wasn't her son.

Jonathan appeared beside his wife. "Bad dream, eh? You haven't had one of those since you were a teen."

Cyril was still reeling from the nightmare of getting viciously torn apart, sweat dripping down the sides of his head and neck. He shivered from the fear that still gripped his psych. Without the Ratadine drug flattening his emotions, it was more raw and amplified.

He glanced up at Martha's face, full of maternal warmth. "I…sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm not Mick." He looked away, despondent. "This is wrong."

Despite his denial, he couldn't pull away from her comforting strokes.

"Don't get your thong in twist, son," Jonathan reassured, before pausing in thought. "Or was it panties? Boxers? Anyhow, the point is, your memory'll come back."

Rather than get more frustrated at the couple's skepticism, Cyril hollowly begged, "Please, you have to believe me. I'm telling the truth. You can even confirm it with Gital. Hell, even his cronies know that I'm not him."

Jonathan studied him for a few seconds. "Alright. Let's say for a moment that I buy this hogwash. How come ya look so much like our son?"

A moment passed before the marksman replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I would understand too, as it's a scientific breakthrough that wasn't possible before. Not even five years ago."

"Ah, I see!" Marth piped up. "They performed surgery on your face to make ya look like Mick!"

"No."

"You're like some…long-lost twin, right?" Jonathan guessed. "But Marth and I would've known about it. How could we miss that a second baby might've popped out? The doctors and nurses couldn't have stolen it right under our noses…could they?"

"That's not it either. Like I said, you won't believe it because it's just so fantastic."

The noise of footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later, Tarjack and his gang appeared. Immediately, Cyril went into defensive mode. He struggled to sit up in a kneeling position, balancing himself with his good leg.

He was anticipating more torture from this lowlife scum.

"Getting acquainted, are we?" the uncouth man sneered.

"You goddamn bastards! You're goin' to pay for what ya did to my son here!" Jonathan spat out.

Tarjack let out a harsh laugh, followed by his cohorts' own derisive reactions.

"Oh, if only you knew," Tarjack drawled. "He's not who you think he is."

"What do you mean?" Martha demanded.

The vicious man grinned. "He's a clone."

"A what?"

"Better get your ears cleaned, old hag," Sakim taunted.

"Clone?" Jonathan repeated. "What's that?"

"He's a copy of your son," Tarjack casually replied, coming forward and leaning against the bars. "They don't just exist in science fiction now." His dark eyes flew to Cyril. "They took Mick Mundy's DNA and created a double. Don't ask me the details on how they did it, but it's quite fascinating."

The Mundys glanced at Cyril, and he acknowledged it. "He's telling the truth."

As much as he hated agreeing with an enemy, they had to understand.

"But…why would whoever created him do so?" Martha was flabbergasted.

"One of the Mann tycoons requested it so he could have his very own army. I even have my own clone." Tarjack's smug expression then darkened with anger. "I was a security guard at TF Industries. They stole my DNA and created a copy. In fact, the fucker's right next door to you."

He then smiled wickedly, eyes filled with the promise of more pain and torture. "But first, I'm going see to it you all suffer tremendously. It turns me on, just as much as drugs and sex."

"And me," Sakin threw in.

Tarjack's smoldering gaze was now pointedly on the Mundys. "A shame Gital doesn't want us to pluck the feathers from you lovely little canaries yet. I get just as many kicks outta hurting old people, and since you're that Aussie prick's parents, it makes it even sweeter."

Cyril could only look on with disdain. He desperately hoped that BLU would get news of his capture, locate the facility and rescue them. If not him and the Mundys, then the other prisoners.

Hell, if it was RED who came as the calvary instead, he wouldn't mind that either. A crazy and unlikely scenario, but he was already losing his mind to the psychosis attacks. Should it really surprise him if he entertained that thought?

Thankfully, the henchmen left afterwards. It's a wonder they didn't drag Cyril out to break his other leg. Curiously, he wondered why Tarjack's clone was imprisoned here. Perhaps he hated his copy just as much as he did Cyril and the RED Sniper. If Gital had tried recruiting the clone to work for him, maybe he had refused to condone their abhorrent atrocities.

A burning curiosity grew within the marksman. He wasn't sure if it was him anymore – strangely, it reminded him of Bubo. The owl was always wanting to find out things, no matter what mood he was in: happy, sad, angry, indifferent…scared.

So, Cyril obeyed this inexplicable instinct and hauled himself towards the left side of the barred entrance.

"What's he doin'?" Martha quietly wondered. Jonathan merely shrugged.

"Hey! You next door!" Cyril called out.

For a moment, there was no reply.

"Can ya hear me?" he tried again. He wondered if the prisoner was asleep.

Then, a jarringly familiar voice, just loud enough to hear. "Yes. What do you want?"

"The name's Cyril. Just your friendly prisoner neighbor here. Sorry, mate, if I woke you."

"No," came the sullen reply. "You didn't."

Okay, that was a good sign. Tarjack wasn't lying. The prisoner sounded exactly like him…the timbre was uncanny. For a moment, Cyril had to batten down his hatred for the monster when he heard the clone's voice. He was in control, not the emotion.

"Would you believe me if I said I too am a clone?" The marksman was gambling on this query. For all he knew, the prisoner didn't know about his own clone identity.

"Yes. I overheard that psychopath talking about it. I take it you're part of TF Industries' bio project?"

"Yes," Cyril confirmed.

"I see. I know only a few like us. It's kind of nice to be meeting another, even under these shitty circumstances."

"Same here, mate."

"I…thought he was coming here to torture me again."

Cyril was disgusted. Tarjack was such a sick bastard that he even enjoyed making a genetic double of himself suffer.

"Yeah. Unfortunately, I'm also part of his playtime."

"That's fucking awful! He doesn't deserve to live!" The clone was bitter.

Cyril sighed, feeling bad for the guy - even if he had just met him. "You got a name?"

A few seconds passed before he answered. "It's Rade."

He sounded so much like Tarjack, yet there was a distinctly different aura about him.

"We're in a tight spot, mate. Brought into this world for another person's agenda. Caught under the wheels of an evil organization. But we're no different from these other people trapped here. At the moment, I see myself as one of them. You get what I'm saying?"

"I…think I do." There was a scathing snort. "What they're doing is unforgivable. They must be stopped."

"My sentiments exactly. We can only hope and pray that Hydra will be destroyed. In fact, I get the feeling it'll be soon."

Despite still feeling unsure about that, he thought of Traveler and Bubo. Before anything happened to them, they would warn his team. In fact, they might even be able to lead them here. Then all hell would break loose. He imagined his team going all out on Gital and his henchmen, shooting, bombing and slashing their way through like the violent fighters they were.

If it did happen, he just hoped the prisoners wouldn't accidentally get killed in the process. BLU was already experienced in protecting civilians, atleast when it came to the tycoon, Billingsworth. They hadn't managed to screw up and kill him.

There was another dip in silence before Rade spoke again.

"You're suffering, as am I and everyone else here. I feel so fucking helpless. I wish I could help free us all. I wish I could've done something when they forced those kids to commit fucking sexual acts!"

Cyril heard Martha gasp, while Jonathan uttered under his breath, "My God…"

"Same here, Rade." The marksman was struggling to push past the sudden revulsion he felt. "We both know it's wrong and evil. That's what separates us from those monsters. Doesn't matter if we're clones. We're more human than they are. In fact, every person trapped here is."

"They're going to pay. The world can't let such a depraved creature like Gital get away with this. But…it's good to know that in this Hell, I'm not alone. There are friends, even in a dark place like this."

"Couldn't agree more."

So far, he was able to successfully separate Tarjack from Rade. A nearly impossible feat that most people wouldn't be able to do. Not when that person looked so much like their source of trauma, misery and pain.

Still feeling worn out, he turned to lean against the wall and closed his eyes. All the while, the older couple silently watched him, goaded by their own curiosity.

"Uh yeah, he certainly isn't Mick," Martha observed.

Jonathan's brows furrowed. "Indeed, Boo. For one thing, he'd be havin' a fit 'bout killin' everyone here. Not gettin' all buddy buddy with another of his kind." An idea came to him and he asked, "Oi! Cyril…" he paused, muttering, "Still wonder how he knew me dad's name." Perking up again, he continued "By any chance, are you a crazed gunman?"

Cyril opened his eyes, puzzled. "Huh?"

. . .