It is impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror... Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror…

Darkness had fallen at Camp Campbell, yet there was still one child unaccounted for. This, of course, was Max, who was currently wandering through the woods plotting the latest scheme weapon in his continual war on mortal enemy, David. His name alone made Max's blood boil with rage. That brain-dead, optimistic, naïve, wretched, hateful, piece of shit fucker DAVID. Max's entire body trembled with white hot fury. How could anyone like him exist! he thought savagely.

He had to be high on something to be that goddamn cheerful all the time. Oh, but he would make David pay. But not just David, he remembered. His enemies list had only recently expanded to include that stupid magician, Harrison. Damn them. Damn all of them! He had been unable to sleep for over a week, due to his seemingly endless vomiting up of cards and other magic bullshit. He was so tired of all this crap, so tired of being stuck in this camp and not even having anywhere else to go. The rage overcame him, all other thoughts being driven out of his mind. He lashed out, and punched the nearest tree with all his might, focusing his unbridled hatred. This had been a mistake, as incredible pain jolted through him in an instant.

"FUCK!" he shrieked. His hand was bleeding quite badly already. He briefly considered going back to the camp to get it treated. No, I won't give him the fucking satisfaction. And so he continued further into the forest, hoping to find something that would make them both suffer…

Twenty thousand feet above the cauldron of anger, the matte black XV-34 tiltrotor, codenamed Necromancer, cruised over the lakeside forest, preparing to airdrop its classified payload. The pilot listened to the muted roar of the enormous pair of contra-rotating propellers and the powerful turboprops that drove them, and reminisced about the short life of his unique aircraft. Necromancer had been constructed as a flying laboratory a year prior, and was one of several such aircraft converted as such for Project Golem. Golem had originated at the Ravenwood National Laboratory in Montana, and had quickly risen to be one of the highest-budgeted and most classified black projects in the history of the United States government. Not even the President had been briefed on its existence so far. It, the pilot considered. The scientists always referred to Golem as he, yet it was always to be described as 'It', according to his superiors. Well, he wasn't payed to ask questions, and in fact, he was being paid very handsomely to keep his mouth shut as much as possible, and the pilot could live with that.

Several meters behind him, a group of scientists were running final checks on Golem. A few still referred to it—him—by his original name, One, as they had hoped he would be the first of many. Alas, this was not to be. For all the vast amounts of money that was poured into the program, they got a machine that spent a disproportionate amount of time undergoing heavy maintenance back in Montana, especially wasteful considering how resistant the close-knit Special Forces were to a technology that could replace them, eventually. The scientists, however thought that Golem was well worth the monumental price. Golem was a gargantuan technological leap, without a doubt. It represented an advancement of forty or fifty years, at least. It was the first time the junior technicians had ever seen Golem; the most advanced humanoid robot ever created by man, by an exponential margin. It certainly was a sight to behold. Standing just over seven feet tall, Golem was designed as a tool of psychological warfare. Its frame was sleek, and almost entirely featureless, save for the few places where the gray synthetic muscle was visible. Its head was angular and too, was blank, except for his six glowing red eyes, arranged in two offset triangular patterns and set in a permanent scowl. Along with the array of sensors built into its heavily armored chassis, these were what fed information to his cybernetic "brain", which rivalled some of the most powerful supercomputers built. That, along with the miniaturized reactor that powered the cybernetic assassin, had been the most difficult piece to create—as if there had been anything on Golem that was easy to build, the senior scientist, Beaumont, remembered bitterly. It had been a Herculean challenge, but now it was paying off. He had been the one who had programmed Golem's personality; the little that it had was Beaumont's doing, ensuring that Golem had a dark sense of humor, if nothing else.

"We're good to go." a technician reported. "How you feelin'?" he asked, a hint of exuberance in his voice.

"Ready for combat. Battle computer online. All systems optimal," Golem replied emotionlessly.

Good, Beaumont thought. "Remember to leave something for the flyboys to clear up, they've practically got a whole company of hired guns down there!" He said, smiling now.

"Affirmative!" Golem had to raise his voice now, as Necromancer's rear cargo had opened, the landscape below a uniform black. Golem gave a quick salute, turned on his heel, and dived out of the helicopter, his supply crate following shortly behind. Roughly six feet long and octagonal, the crate tapered to a point at each end, so it could easily be driven into the ground. Its dull grey appearance was deceiving, however, for it carried every tool and weapon Golem would need to flawlessly carry out his mission, and was equipped with a parachute and small retro-rockets to ensure a stable landing. Both it and Golem were now only five thousand feet above the ground and had hit terminal velocity. Activating his thermal sensors, Golem could see every lifeform in the rapidly-approaching forest. Including, Golem noted, what appeared to be a sub adult human. This will get interesting…

Max clutched his hand in agony, still in pain after the bleeding subsided. Max's fury, however, had only heightened. "Fuck David, fuck this pathetic camp, fuck these goddamn woods…" he muttered darkly. His brooding was interrupted, however, by a deafening crash as someone—something—careened into the ground in front of him. As the dust settled, Max noticed that it was getting up from the perfect three-point landing it had made. As he stared up at the thing once it had reached its full, and enormous, height, Max felt something he had not felt, or at least admitted he felt, in quite some time: fear. More than that, pure and absolute terror.

It was painted a dull black, the only identifiable markings being a light gray '001' above what would be its right pectoral. Then, in a harsh, metallic voice it spoke "Identify!"