Round 4 - Ken Rhee (Marc)

They reached the ruined base just as a chopper was taking off. The squad of eight men fanned out ahead of their Colonel, sweeping the surroundings through their gun sights searching for targets of opportunity, careful not to trip on stray bits of structure or body parts littering the snow.

The Colonel consulted a small device he was carrying, which was emitting a faint yet ever more frequent beeping sound. "Search the rubble for any sign of Agent Rheenovsky. His locator implant is still active and my readings tell me he's somewhere in this mess. By the grace of mother Russia perhaps he's survived."

The squad dutifully went to work turning over flaming debris and snow frosted bits of insulation scattered about the ground around them. They had to stay away from the core of the still blazing building, but whatever was near the blast would have been flung far from there anyway. Within minutes, one of the men called out.

"Sir! I have something!" It was Agent Samsonov. The Colonel approached with haste. Beneath a piece of corrugated steel sheeting his man was lifting up with his gun barrel, a head lay on its side in the crimson stained snow. Just a head. He immediately recognised it as Kenskei Rheenovsky, his most trusted agent in the field. Despite his military training and years of soul hardening war operations, his heart sank at the sight.

The head was resting on its left ear, about a quarter of the way sunk into the snow. The one visible eye was open wide and staring out into the Antarctic wastes, as if longing to be home. Ken's right ear and most of his right temple were torn off of his skull and holding from a flab of skin at the base of his jaw line. He looked like a half peeled blood orange. The Colonel thought he could see some kind of shrapnel embedded in the head, but he couldn't begein to tell what it might have been.

"Bag his remains for return to the Tchaikovsky. His duty to Mother Russia here in this barren wasteland will not be forgotten. A proper funeral awaits our comrade back home." The Colonel also knew that many a military scientist would like to examine the brain of Rheenovsky to investigate his unusually high restistance to mental influence. Combined with Donahue's work he had stolen and transmitted to them, there were likely many applications that could be found with the information gained.

Minutes later, as the squad was making final preparations for the trek back to their sub, a group of armed humanoid creatures appeared about a hundred yards away from the blazing ruins. Before the Colonel or any of his men could process what they were seeing, the things opened fire on them. Three of the men were instantly sublimated into a fine cloud of pink particles. Luckily Samsonov wasn't one of them.

"Samsonov, full retreat! Genkin, Ivanishin, switch to full auto! Fire at will to cover us! Back to the Tchaikovsky!!!" The Colonel had to scream at the top of his lungs to be heard over the cacophony of weapons fire around him and his squad. The sound of gun fire and explosives was deafening, but it was made worse by the sound the creatures' weapons fire made when it vaporized the snow it came into contact with. It sounded even worse when the beams hit flesh...

---

+What are you doing!? Those are my allies!+ Donague watched helplessly as his extra terrestrial saviours began vaporizing his only remaining human cohorts. 

+Quiet Doctor! These humans know not with what they are tampering. We still sense some essence of Xyctexyct nearby. All trace of him must be extinguished, for the good of your race.+

Donahue could faintly hear the sound of a helicopter far overhead and began to wish he was on board. The Russians were being minced before his eyes and with them went his only chance at completing his work. He doubted the aliens would stick around to enlighten him any further once the threat of Xyctexyct was dealt with. 

Looking up, he saw the helicopter he had heard moments before, except it was now silent and beginning to list alarmingly. The engines had failed and the vehicle was now in a free fall. Realizing what was happening, Donahue began to run away from the battle as fast as he could. He knew it wouldn't be fast enough.

---

"Samsonov! Run! Get on that snowmobile and get the fuck off this god forsaken continent! Ru-" The Colonel's orders were cut off as 3 separate finely collimated beams of energy pierced his torso and neck, causing him to detonate and fly apart like a pinata hit by a 12 gauge.

Samsonov couldn't help but stare at his long time superior and mentor's demise. As he registered what had happened and prepared to act on his commander's final orders, he saw a large object plummeting from the sky toward his aggressors.

The Bell 212 chopper hit the hard packed snow like a meteor, the bulk of it's now flaming mass bouncing once and hurtling straight into the group of beings firing at the now one-man Russian squad. The creatures were instantly mulched by the momentum of the vehicle, main rotor still spinning wildly and sending various body parts flying through the air in all directions.

As the flaming wreckage came to rest, Samsonov stood agape, unable to come to terms with his luck. After several seconds, he regained his wits, hoisted the pack containing Kenskei's head onto his shoulder and jogged over to the snowmobile.

Thirty minutes later, Samsonov let out a long sigh of relief as the hatch of the Tchaikovsky closed above him and he was admitted back into his vessel. He'd never been so happy to be confined in its cramped inner spaces before this moment. He was now the commanding officer of the sub, and as such would have to make his way to the bridge with haste to command their retreat from the bay and long trip home. 

Before doing that he made his way to the galley, ignoring the men staring at his blood spattered snow-camo outfit. Once there, he threw open the door to the walk-in freezer and threw in the pack he was carrying. He knew the scientists back home would want to take a look at the remains it contained. He would make sure the Colonel and the rest of his squad's demise would not be in vain.

The door to the freezer made a dull thunk as Samsonov slammed it shut. In the darkness, the canvas sack sitting in between two sides of beef shuddered. A single chitinous claw emerged from the drawstring tightened opening at the top of the bag and dug into the frost lining the shelf it sat on. A second claw appeared, spreading and opening the bag, revealing the head of Kenskei Rheenovsky supported on insectile limbs protruding from its neck. Its eyes were pure blackness. Its jaw opened, distended at an odd angle, produced mandible like protrusions and began to emit a bone chilling string of sounds...

"Xyctexyct will riiiissssssse again... Ksst-ksst-ksst-ksst-ksst-kssssssssst!!!"

Round 4 - George Shipley (Adam)

"I need to go home. Can you take me home?" Ryan Miller was being worked on by one of the doctors that George didn't know. The man's face was a ruin, but he didn't seem to be noticing the agonizing pain. George thought the man must be in shock.

"Sure thing buddy. You know what?" George stood up and turned to face the assembled remainder of the staff on the base. They had pretty much all assembled to watch the remains of B-142 burn. "Everybody listen up. I'm getting the fuck out of here in, lets say," George looked at an imaginary watch, "ten minutes. If you want to get the fuck out of here too, get your stuff and meet me over by the Bell. I've got enough room for everyone."

The staff looked fairly confused at the statement. One of the group stepped forward.

"What the hell is going on George?"

"I don't bloody know do I? Best I can tell, Donaghue went bananas, killed a bunch of people, and blew himself up. I got Miller out. Wasn't in time to save Molly or anyone else though."

Jennifer, the only other woman on the base spoke. "Was John in there?"

"Which one is John?"

"The one with the red hair."

"Oh, yes. Dead." George thought back. He seemed to remember that Jennifer and John came to the base on the same day. The memory was confirmed when Jennifer opened up her mouth in shock, squeaked once, and then collapsed into a sobbing heap. He almost rolled his eyes. "Any more questions? Nine minutes."

***

Near enough everyone had climbed into the back of the helicopter. He tried to think if there were any faces missing. He realised that the skinny, nervous kid with the obviously fake accent who had been working with Donaghue was missing. That said, he had been working with Donaghue, so he was probably dead. 

"Fuck him," George thought to himself. He turned around to face his passengers. "Everyone alright back there?" He made eye contact with Miller. There was something off about him, besides the wounds he'd sustained; an emptiness behind his stare. "Miller, you good?"

"Yes, Mr. Shipley. I'm good."

"That's Captain Shipley, Miller." Satisfied, George cycled up the engine, and the group left the base."

***

Before heading home, which for George was a base a couple of hundred miles south of where they currently were, but for everyone else would be several thousand miles in several directions, George headed west to satisfy his curiosity. Donaghue had said there was a Russian submarine out here. There was no harm in looking.

He circled the area a couple of times. In the back, the staff seemed confused, but George ignored them. He didn't see anything. No submarine. No nothing. He started to head south, plotting a wide arc so as to avoid Markham if at all possible. A few minutes later he saw them. Two groups of figures down in the snow engaged in a gunfight. 

The first group were military, equipped in full arctic gear. He didn't recognize the garb. They were attempting to make a tactical retreat from the second group.

"They're here for me. We must go, now." Ryan Miller was standing, leaning over the back of George's seat. It was like he was talking inside George's head, just like that female voice had back at B-142. George obeyed. He turned away from the pitched battle and pushed the helicopter hard towards the south-east. He didn't intend to take the action. It just happened, as if his arms, his hands, his mind were not his own.

"Do not submit George Shipley," the female voice said, joining Miller's. "The Miller is no longer the man you know. He is Xyctexyct; destroyer. You must not take him from this place."

"Who are you?" George said aloud. 

"Ignore the heretic. We must go."

"Don't you recognize my voice Georgie?" Her face appeared in his head as he had last seen it; eyes wide and desperate as she dumped Donaghue into the back of the Bell-212. Shaking her head and running back towards the Markham base, and certain death.

"Holness? I never... you're deaf. You didn't..."

"Ah, yes. That's right. Sorry. I haven't been..."

"HERETIC! BEGONE, YOU FOUL WASTE OF FLESH."

"Oh, shut up. God, he's such a child.  If you take him back to the mainland, he'll enslave everyone. You have to stop him."

"How?" George asked. No reply came. No more voices. George realised his arms were his own again. He glanced over his shoulder. All of the staff in the back of the chopper sat mouths agape, eyes rolled back into their heads. Miller stood, writhing against some invisible force. Something was moving under his flesh. 

Well shit, thought George to himself. He pushed the helicopter into an ascent. He wondered to himself if this was the purpose in life that had eluded him since he'd left the military. He wondered if all that sadness and loneliness and the occasional cold blooded act was justified by these final moments. He realized that he would be killing everyone aboard, but that was fine. It wasn't like he'd feel guilty about it.

He turned hard to the right and then cut the engines. The Bell-212 started to tumble. Miller, the only person in the vehicle not strapped into his seat, slammed into the left side bank of seats, smashing into a couple of passengers and waking them from whatever had been keeping them docile. They started to scream. George saw the ground beneath him, and then the sky, and then the ground again. He smiled and closed his eyes.

Peace at last.

Round 4 - Marcus Jones (Justin)

The transformed Marcus Jones howled in triumph as a detonation from within the nuclear engine ripped a hole in the underbelly of the submarine.  His chitenous form was immediately bathed in radiation.  Water geysered up from a the tear in the submarine’s hull, but the rapidly increasing temperature turned that liquid to steam as quickly as it came in.  The insectile armour plating that made up Marcus’ skin soaked up the radiation, and a curious chemical reaction caused his shell to emit a sickly green glow.

 

As the pain increased, Marcus shredded his way out of the submarine, rending through pipes, wires and sheets of metal.  From outside, a crack appeared on the black hull and whistled like a titanic teapot as steam screamed through the narrow gap.  Another second later and Marcus Jones was crawling out like some hideous perversion of nature hatching from an onyx egg.

 

Donaghue saw this unfold from behind a row of alien space marines and held his hands over his ears to block out the deafening wail of venting steam and gasses.  The aliens immediately sank to one knee, their appendages crunching in the snow, as they saw the glowing green monstrosity that was Marcus Jones wriggling from the sub.

 

{Ready weapons.}  The deep voice of the alien leader said.

 

The group of alien fighters aimed their weapons at Marcus’ praying mantis-like body, still wiggling out of the submarine.  A series of whirring clicks and beeps came from their weapons as they cycled to ready mode.

 

{Weapons ready.} The squad of alien warriors responded as one with calm precision.

 

{Fire.}

 

Marcus Jones was about to screech his victory into the arctic sky when he sensed the aliens.  His cry of achievement turned into a cry of panic as all too late he understood what was about to happen.

 

A volley of multicoloured lights and plasmic liquids burning with the intensity of a star’s core sailed through the air.  Marcus tried to dodge but two of his four legs were still caught in the gash of the submarine.  The first of the alien ordinance impacted Marcus Jones, superheating every molecule of liquid in his body and causing him to explode like a pumpkin pregnant with a lit stick of dynamite.  The slower projectiles hit a millisecond later, melting the area around where Marcus once stood and reduced it to red hot slag.

Donaghue watched with his mouth agape as the alien warriors rose to their feet to continue their mission.

Round 4 - Evan Donaghue (Eric)

Donaghue was confused. He felt as though he were floating, suspended in a sensory-deprivation chamber. He could sense no light, no sound, no movement... but he could sense the cold. He was very cold and... very alone. His mind drifted for what seemed an eternity, and yet no time at all, lost and aimless. Until suddenly, a thought intruded into his mind.

{Foolish human,} it reprimanded him. {I warned you of the danger posed by Xyctexyct, but you would not listen. And now, it is free.}

{Yes,} Donaghue's mind cried out, {I was a fool! Blinded by curiosity, vanity and...}

{And greed. You wanted power, and so you bent to Xyctexyct's will. And now you and your friends will perish, consumed by Xyctexyct's inexhaustible hunger.}

{No!} Donaghue protested. {There must be something you can do! Something we can still do to stop it! The alcove? The Felcar field? You contained it once, you must be able to contain it again!}

{Perhaps,} the voice conceded.

{No, brother,} came a second, shriller voice. {Why help these primitives? Let Xyctexyct consume their world, it is a fitting fate for their arrogance.}

{It was we who brought Xyctexyct here, however unintentionally,} the deeper voice argued calmly. {It was our duty to guard and contain it until our evacuation. We failed and we too must take responsibility.} 

{Take me with you!} pleaded Donaghue. {I can help! I have an extensive understanding of human technology. I can help you make use of what resources are available.}

{Primitive technology,} sneered the shrill voice.

{But better than nothing!} retorted Donaghue. He heard echoes and murmuring as of several distinct voices conversing, but their words were out of earshot. Finally, the deeper voice could be understood once again.

{Very well, human} it concluded. {We will restore your fragile body. You will follow us to the water vessel where Xyctexyct is heading. You will stay behind us at all times and act only as you are instructed. Do you understand?}

{Yes, perfectly.}

In an instant, Donaghue felt his senses return in a rush. He felt cold, wet snow below him, heard and felt howling wind around him, smelled smoke and charred flesh... and felt searing pain all over. He could not move, not even to scream in pain. He felt a heavy weight lifted off of his chest and could dimly make out a large, shadowy shape bending over him. A moment later, his vision began to clear and he saw the shape was a large, grey, bipedal creature with four arms and an elongated head. It brandished instruments Donaghue could not identify, but as it moved, he felt his pain beginning to fade away. In a few minutes, the pain was gone and the creature stretched up to its full height. Tentatively, Donaghue rose to his feet and looked around in astonishment.

Some distance away, part of the base remained intact, but all around him was debris. He counted enough body parts to make up at least four people, none of which were recognizable. Around the tall alien creature stood several more of its kind, all standing erect and alert. They exuded a sense of calm and professionalism that Donaghue associated with human soldiers.

{Your body has been repaired,} the deep voice announced. {Now we depart, and you follow. With luck, we may yet fulfill our duty... and save your backward little world.}

Round 4 - Ryan Miller (Makou)

The whole experience was very confusing. It was like the first minutes after being woken from a deep sleep. A thick haze clung to Ryan Miller consciousness. The noise, the pain and everything else seemed to fade away as the grip of the other being's mind slipped through his own. It felt invasive at first but soon became comfortable, even intimate. Ryan felt the weight of the other's presence and it made him feel small but somehow special. 

Xyctexyct... 

That was what others like him called it. But it wasn't a name or a race of aliens or even a proper noun. It would more accurately be characterized as a description, like "skinny" or "luminous".  There was no one Xyctexyct. All Xyctexyct were the Xyctexyct. A thing that was like a god, that had been worshipped as a god in the past but this particular fragment, this individual strand of Xyctexyct was born into servitude. Now free it shared its memory with Ryan Miller. This Xyctexyct had been cultivated by a race far beyond mankind and bound to make it compliant so its creators could use it as a mere tool. It was a power source, a means of communication and of travel across the vast empty reaches of the stars. 

Ryan had set this being of transgalactic significance free to do as it would in a world still burning dead dinosaurs for power. Ryan knew this thought should terrify him but instead he felt only as Xyctexyct felt. He was part of Xyctexyct, as was Molly Patel and Marcus Jones. The others still resisted. They were still not part of Xyctexyct but as soon as its power grew enough they would succumb and join him. Soon enough everyone would join him including his son. As the last vestiges of Ryan Miller's individual consciousness melded with the whole of Xyctexyct he realized that in a way he had succeeded in goals but he really didn't care. 

Round 3 - George Shipley (Adam)

George Shipley approached the lab. The sound had brought him here; a keening wail that had only subsided as he approached B-142. It had started suddenly, the agony of it dropping him to his knees in the centre of his bunk where he was practicing a self-imposed exile. As he'd approached the exterior wall, he had spotted it. A block of C-4 easily large enough to destroy the laboratory building entirely. The timer showed four minutes remaining. The wail intensified. Whatever was screaming in his head wanted him to go inside. He instinctively knew that if he tried to leave, the sound would strike him down. The door was open. He went inside.

He tripped over Harmon as he entered. The man was dead, his body perforated with chunks of dense rock. Next to him was Steve, also dead. In the centre of the devastation was Miller, still standing, arm outstretched, seemingly frozen where he stood, several bleeding wounds covering his front, his face a bloody ruin. Scattered around the room were others. Donaghue lay moaning on the floor seemingly insensible, a couple of others whose names George hadn't bothered to learn or remember lay unconscious near to him. And then there was Molly Patel slumped in a corner, bones protruding from her neck, her eyes empty and glazed over. 

The wailing subsided in his head, and was replaced by a horrid buzzing sound. He became cold all over in a way he had rarely experienced. His head swam, and he forgot himself. A second later, he had carried her body out in to the snow and laid her down carefully on a drift sheltered from the building itself. Blood seeped out onto the snow. He stared down at her, and then touched her face.

"The bomb. Save him."

He didn't recognise the voice. It belonged to a woman. He stood and left Molly out in the snow. He rushed back to the building. Two minutes remaining, he grabbed Miller, who collapsed as soon as George touched him. He hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him to the drift, laying him next to Molly. Miller stirred in his unconscious state. He was bleeding, and his face would never heal right, but he would live, which seemed good enough to George.

As he entered for the third time, he looked down at Donaghue and the other two men. Donaghue was mostly conscious.

"Ah, Mr. Shipley. You're here. Would you mind terribly helping me up?"

***

6 months ago

Donaghue lay unconscious in the back of the Bell 212. Shipley had lunged for him and knocked him out when the old man had pulled the pistol on him. Whatever it was the old man had seen had scared him enough to pull a weapon on George, and so after a couple of minutes of consideration he had decided that leaving the Markham base was probably for the best. It had taken less than a minute for the old helicopter to get up off the ground, and a minute later they were on the right trajectory to bring them home.

George pushed down the voice in the back of his mind that was telling him to go back for Finn and Holness. Donaghue was a smart man. If he said they were dead, they were dead. Whatever had killed them was obviously dangerous, and with only a couple of handguns on the helicopter, George didn't feel well equipped enough to deal with a murderous unknown quantity. He would deal with the guilt for abandoning them later. In truth, he likely wouldn't feel much guilt. He hadn't picked the mission. He hadn't left them behind. He was following orders. Donaghue's orders. That's where the blame really belonged.

Something smashed into the side of the helicopter in mid air. Something heavy. All of a sudden, the Bell 212 tipped sideways, as if a great weight w's pulling down on one side of the vehicle. George panicked and attempted to level them out. He risked a sideways glance. Something large, shadowed and ungainly was hanging on to them. He saw its eyes, a solid white, and then it was gone, the helicopter rocking hard again as it left. He forced the Bell 212 into a climb. Donaghue didn't stir. VanderTuin remained dead.

***

George helped Donaghue to his feet and started to lead him out of the lab. The old man was light, like his bones were hollow. Like George could crush him with a single squeeze. He considered it, but then thought better of it. The old man might be able to tell him what had happened, as they walked, he asked.

"That stupid Miller let him out."

"Let who out?"

"Xyctexyct. He let him out, and now we're all buggered," said Donaghue. "Buggered."

"Was it this Zickateetick that killed Molly?"

"If she's dead, then yes. I'm sorry Mr. Shipley. We shouldn't have brought it back here."

"Brought what back here?"

"The statue. From Markham. It was a prison. I brought it back here and then Miller let it free. Not intentionally. He's an idiot."

"Right. Okay. Where can I find it?"

"Find what?"

"Zicklebrick or whatever his name is."

"Oh, yes. He went out to the submarine. I think he has friends under the ice. I'm sure he means to free them."

"What submarine?"

"It's just west of here. Russian."

"Right, right. I'll find it. No problem. Anything else?"

"Xyctexyct is very powerful. I'm fairly sure he'll kill you if you go out there alone."

George lowered Donaghue into a chair just inside the front door of the lab. "Well I'll just make sure I take some people from the base with me then."

"I should come along too. I know how to stop it."

"Sure, sure. You just wait here for another minute or so, and I'll come right back for you, okay?"

"Thank you Mr. Shipley."

"Captain."

"Of course."

George turned and left, closing the door behind him. He quickly hobbled over to where he had deposited Miller and Molly Patel and slumped down in to the snow bank. A scant few seconds later B-142 exploded, taking much of B-141 with it. George winced as it happened, and as debris showered down around him, and a loud alarm started to sound over in the residential blocks, he started to laugh quietly to himself. Miller stirred next to him and started to moan loudly.

"Doctor's will be along in a moment Miller. Don't you worry."