The Zulu squad corporal tried to scratch his head as he scanned the building. For the third time that night, he'd forgotten that he couldn't scratch his head—he was wearing a ballistic helmet and balaclava mask that left no portion of his head exposed. His high-tech gloves scraped fruitlessly against the high-tech surface of his high-tech helmet, creating a high-tech annoying sound. Heavy Armor Z-2 winced noticeably.

"We've reached the designated building in Sector Nine. Over."

"Roger that, Zulu One," replied the commander's low voice on the radio. "Maintain your position when you're inside and wait for further orders."

Zulu One clicked the radio off, satisfied that he'd safely led his squad to the position. "Soon, the Delta Force operators will be coming through," he thought to himself. "And they'll get a walloping they'll never forget."

Unbeknownst to the corporal, he and his group were all total idiots. For starters, he'd said "nine" over the radio when he should have said "niner." As minor as this error seems, the commander had mistook the "nine" in his message for "five," the number of the sector they were actually supposed to be in. Furthermore, Sector Nine had absolutely no relevance to the plans of the Replica forces: it was a shopping district.

But even the fact that what Zulu One took to be the "designated building" was a Holiday Inn Express located next to a fairly large mall was not enough to break him out of his growing sense of anticipation and confidence. Individual intuition never was a particularly acute feature of Replicas, but it was even less so with the Zulu Squad. The fact that the Replicas didn't even know what a Holiday Inn was certainly didn't help, either.

Thinking himself an adept leader, Zulu One commanded his men to enter through the side door of the chain hotel, creeping as quietly as they could down the soft carpet of the hallway, unknowingly being respectful to the sleeping guests in the rooms nearby.

Jennifer Peterson, the young receptionist who happened to be available at the time, watched the group of heavily armed soldiers sneak across the floor with a surprising amount of patience.

"Are you guys here for the Sci-Fi Convention?" she inquired politely.

Zulu One and several other soldiers let out a shriek of surprise.

"Wpagh!" Heavy Armor Z-2 gurgled (He actually meant to say, "Please, don't hurt me!" but his voice was distorted beyond recognition.) before he curled up in a fetal ball.

"Because if you are," the receptionist continued, "it ended last weeken-…"

"Drop your weapon! Hands up! Reach for the sky! Get your back to the wall! On the floor!" Zulu Five and Zulu Six babbled simultaneously. Their fingers quivered over the trigger of their G2A2 assault rifles, and though Jennifer couldn't see it, (due to their polarized visors and masks that had also prevented them from itching their noses, a problem they'd whined about bitterly for the squad's entire ride in the armored truck) their expressions were sweat-soaked, wide-eyed, and quite pleading.

Zulu Five and Zulu Six were interesting exhibits in the museum of incompetence that was Zulu Squad. Their actions and thoughts were both identical and simultaneous, but despite this, they were completely unaware of each other's existence. Any attempts to point this reality out to them were met with dismal failure.

"That's enough, Zulu Five and Zulu Six! She gets the point!" Zulu Four said. He was perhaps the only Replica in the squad that was at least halfway up to the standards of the rest of the battalion.

Indeed, she did get the point—Jennifer had already put her hands up, confused and utterly unaware that she had just become involved in a horrifying catastrophe that stemmed from a young psychic girl's rage against those who had wronged her. Of course, neither Paxton Fettel nor Alma Wade had the slightest idea this confrontation was going on, the former because the Zulu Squad was an experimental unit that did not rely on his orders, the latter because she happened to be devoting her psychic projection's energies to playing a lonely game of hopscotch in an abandoned playground, whispering to herself to fill the deadly silence in her tortured mind.

That was the kind of thing Alma usually did for fun.

Suddenly, there was a sound like a piece of duct tape being ripped off a water balloon, followed by a loud thud.

"Damn it," a muffled voice cursed.

The squad turned around to see Assassin Z-3 sprawled on the carpet face-first like a sleeping drunkard. Assassin Z-3 was a rare example of an exception to ATC protocol in its Replica soldier unit formations; ordinarily the Assassins did not fight side by side with conventional Replica squads. But because of the oddities of Assassin Z-3's personality, including his unusually conversational nature, the supervisors of the Perseus Project decided it would be best if he were to be a full member of the Zulu Squad.

"The sticky things keep failing," the stealth soldier lamented.

"What do you mean, 'sticky things?'" Zulu One asked.

"The adhesive devices on my gloves. You should know perfectly well what I'm talking about." The graceless ninja said irritatedly. "I swear, as soon as I get my hands on the bozo who designed these things…"

"Hate to break it to ya, champ, but he's already dead." Zulu Four said.

"He is?" Even though the Assassin was wearing a full facemask, it was easy to tell that he was bitterly disappointed.

"Alma vaporized him. Remember seeing that security camera footage?"

"Oh." Assassin Z-3 looked contemplative, then suddenly bristled with anger and bolted up to Zulu Four, slapping him with such force that he was knocked headfirst against the receptionist's desk. "What was that for?" Zulu Four spat.

"That was for calling me 'champ,'" Assassin Z-3 said.

The squad paused for a moment, an important apprehension beginning to dawn on them. While Zulu Four and Assassin Z-3 were arguing, they had all been too distracted to notice the escape of Jennifer Peterson!

Zulu Five and Zulu Six peeked under the desk, then under the swivel chair for good measure. Sure enough, she was gone without a trace.

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Meanwhile, several miles away, the captain of the Replica battalion's Juliet Company sat in the command vehicle. Like Paxton Fettel, he put no trust into the Zulu Squad's abilities whatsoever, and for good reason. Zulu Squad, along with the Yankee and X-ray Squad, had originally been formed by the Armacham Technology Corporation's Achilles Project to create a group of clones that stood out from the rest in their inability to directly receive telepathic objectives. ATC hoped to use them as a backup squad in case Fettel became unable to command, but their efforts soon proved to be mostly unsuccessful when it became apparent that all the Achilles Project Replicas were either obtuse, annoying, or both. Nevertheless, ATC designated the combined three squads the Charlie Platoon and placed them in the Juliet Company of the Replica battalion.

So far, the Charlie Platoon had not done so well. The X-ray squad was completely destroyed when their Mi-24 helicopter crashed, and the Yankee squad had been decimated by a team of ATC security guards before being finished off by an accidental grenade explosion. Zulu Squad was the only squad that had not endured any losses, if one disregarded the fact that they'd left their REV-6 Powered Armor soldier back at the base. Not wanting to further test the squad's luck, he ordered Zulu to Sector Five, where they'd been unlikely to have any opportunities to get themselves killed or interfere with the mission.

He'd been listening to the radio reports from the squads in the Armacham HQ when his eyes idly wandered to the GPS squad position tracker. They widened in surprise when he noticed that it was finally functioning. Before, it had been frequently useless due to signal interference, but now he could finally see where his men were, including Zulu Squad.

There weren't in Sector Five. Nor were they in Six, Seven, Eight, or…

He cursed out loud and snatched his radio communicator, hoping they hadn't done something monumentally stupid.

------------------------

While the rest of Zulu Squad was frantically searching in bathrooms, under furniture, and behind potted plants, Zulu Seven stared hungrily at the contents of a vending machine. Zulu Seven was an obsessive eater, although one couldn't tell by his outside appearance. Replica soldiers could not become obese or overweight; their genetically engineered metabolisms were too efficient.

The snack bags of Cheezee Pooz gleamed at him seductively through the display glass of the vending machine. Zulu Seven didn't know what a Cheezee Pooz was, but it sounded edible, and that was enough for his standards. He checked the other machine, a large green glowing one with the words Diet Squish writtenin big white lettering on the front. He didn't understand what a "squish" diet was, either. He'd been on tons of different diets before, often synthetic protein-rich regimens Armacham had tested on them. The squish diet sounded disgusting, but he didn't see why the civilians would stock a diet with no nutritional value in a public machine. Besides, if it was a "diet," that would probably mean that he'd have more to eat than with the Cheezee Pooz.

He examined the machine, pleased to see that it was similar to the ration distribution machines that he'd grown so used to in the cafeteria of the training facility. Push a button and you received a meal. Except this had an array of differently colored buttons, all with different labels ranging from Diet Squish to some names that he could only guess at.

He pushed the Diet Squish button, expecting a prepackaged MRE to fall out of the slot like always. It didn't. "Insert $1.00," a cryptic red display on the machine said. Zulu Seven, not being acquainted with the basic concepts of a capitalist economy, sighed in irritation. He punched the button again, without any new results. He smacked the vending machine with the butt of his shotgun, hoping to make it function properly. The only result was that the machine's lighted front flickered. He slammed at it again, and then again, and then once more without success before he started to consider it was a better idea to try the Cheezee Pooz. The small shiny bag beckoned him again, telling him to break the glass front and come in to its home, to…

"Come in Zulu Squad…Come in, Zulu Squad…" it said in a strangely masculine voice. Had he not been in his deep euphoric daze, he would have wondered why the snack spoke to him in a voice that so strongly resembled that of the Juliet Company leader.

Zulu Seven licked his lips hungrily, allured by the voice that beckoned and encouraged, not to mention made him feel even more famished.

"I'm hearing you loud and clear, my tasty little bag of Cheezee Pooz," he whispered softly.

-----------------------------------------------

"I'm hearing you loud and clear, my tasty little bag of Cheezee Pooz," Zulu Seven's voice whispered through the radio.

The Juliet Company captain stared at the radio, unsure of what to say. None of his men had given him such a bizarre response before, save for that one time when the Yankee Squad had been freaked out by the presence of a bicycle rack.

Suddenly Zulu One's voice came in, sounding refreshingly in touch with reality.

"Reading you five by five, command," Zulu One replied calmly as he made sure no one was hiding in a nearby wastebasket.

"Zulu One, what the hell are you doing in Sector Niner?"

Zulu One was taken aback. "Securing the area as you ordered, command. Has there been a change in plans?"

There was a heavy sigh from the captain.

"Zulu One, relocate your squad to Sector Five immed—…" He was suddenly cut off by a burst of static.

"Command? Command? Come in, command…command?" There was no reply. Frustrated yet again, Zulu One turned the radio off. "We've received new orders," he announced to his squad. "We are to head to Sector Five ASAP."

Disappointed that they had lost their opportunity to capture and intimidate the hell out of a civilian, (and in Zulu Seven's case, disappointed that he was unable to claim his rightful prize of the bag of Cheezee Pooz) they piled into their armored personnel carrier and drove off for their new destination.

Back inside the building, a maid happened to glance at the enormous vehicle through a window just as it sped away.

"Gas guzzlers," she muttered, shaking her head.

-----------------------------------------------

"Can we eat our rations now? I'm starving," Zulu Seven complained.

Zulu One eyed him calmly. "ATC regulation RV.23 prevents us from eating while riding in the APC."

"But I thought we were fighting against ATC." Zulu Seven said thoughtfully.

"Yes, but we were not instructed to disregard all company policy."

"For God's sake, sir, just let the man have his rations," Zulu Four groaned. "If you don't, we're going to be hearing about it for the entire drive."

Zulu One turned his gaze over to Zulu Four. "And the ATC administration will be hearing about your insubordination, Zulu Four."

As pointless as his excessively by-the-book attitude seemed, it was because of this trait that Zulu One had been specifically selected to be a Replica Corporal by the ATC Perseus Project supervisors. He reminded them of themselves.

"Sir, we're under orders to capture and interrogate any ATC administrative personnel."

Zulu One's temper was rising. No, it didn't matter if his reasoning was nonsensical. His rank was his rank, and those who ranked lower had to know their places. So he persisted.

"Then the ATC administration will be hearing about your insubordination while we interrogate them."

"They wouldn't care, sir. If they were being tortured, obedience to company policy wouldn't matter that much."

"Yes, it would!"

"No, it wouldn't, sir."

"Yes, it would!"

"No, it wouldn't, sir."

Meanwhile, their transport was picking up speed.

"The target has been reported to be in this area," said Zulu Eight, their APC driver, over the radio. "If I find him, I'm going to try and run him down."

This was one of Zulu Eight's nerves-of-steel stunts he liked to pull with the APC. They were often foolhardy or excessively dangerous; even Zulu One knew that. But he was too engaged in his useless debate to even notice Zulu Eight's voice.

"Yes, it would!" he cried triumphantly. He was the knight that had shot a golden arrow into the heart of the dragon, he was the fast food worker who'd retired filthy rich, and he was the hobo who'd won the lottery. He was the crème de la crème, the big cheese, the guy with the golden Rolex watch. Zulu One hadn't thought of any of these metaphors, of course; he wouldn't have understood them. But he was victorious nonetheless.

"No, it wouldn't, sir."

Zulu One was stunned. Hadn't Zulu Four realized his victory had been total and complete? "Stop saying that. I won the argument." He shot back.

"No, you didn't, sir."

"Yes, I did!"

The transport served abruptly, throwing them against the wall.

"The target is in sight!" Zulu Eight said. "I'm gonna turn him into roadkill!"

Outside, only meters away, was their target: the F.E.A.R. Point Man. Adrenaline slowed time down to a crawl as soon as he saw the APC barreling toward him. Willing his exhausted muscles to move, he turned around and sprinted back up the alleyway as fast as he could.

"No hiding from me, you doomed son of a bi-…" Zulu Eight broke off when he saw the target disappear around a corner. He tried to slam on the brakes, but it was too late. The eight ton vehicle's forward momentum was too much, and it crashed through the board fence at the end of the alley like a bullet through paper.

It was after the truck had smashed through the fence that Zulu One realized that something was wrong. It wasn't the sound that had done this; it was the fact that he seemed suddenly weightless. There were two possibilities; either they'd suddenly been transported into space, or they were in free-fall. He was still deciding between the two (after all, the idea of being in outer space was kind of appealing to him) when Zulu Four yelled, "Bail out!"

The squad literally sprung into action, diving for the emergency escape hatch in the ceiling. Now time had slowed down for the Replicas, and they were only seconds away from crashing to the ground. He was about to reprimand Zulu Four for giving commands when a hand shoved him from behind, knocking his wind out and pushing him forward.

Their vehicle was falling at an alarmingly sharp angle now. Assassin Z-3 kicked the escape hatch open. There was a blur of motion and the sensation of being shoved again, shouts, and then a wave of pressure and sound that filled his head before it turned the world into darkness.

The F.E.A.R. operative watched the spectacle with a detached interest. There was no pleasure or remorse he took in seeing the armored car burst into flames when its fuel tank ignited; only a gradual slowing of his breathing as he determined that the immediate danger was gone. He moved on, making sure to not be caught off guard if they had any backup. Had he stayed for a few moments longer, he might have seen the dazed survivors stumble out from behind the smoldering wreckage.

-----------------------------------------------

When Zulu One regained consciousness, he became aware of a heavy weight lying on top of him. He tried to take a look at what it was, but his vision was heavily blurred. It was metallic, for certain.

"Someone get this piece of wreckage off me," he moaned.

"Waaggghh," the wreckage that was in fact Heavy Armor Z-2 said indignantly.

"You owe him one, you know," Zulu Five and Zulu Six pointed out. "If he hadn't been right next to you, you'd have been killed by the blast."

"So now I get to die of suffocation. Just great."

"Tired of suffocating in the summer mugginess at night?" A pleasant voice said over the squad's radio. "Try CrispAir Pro™ Dehumidifiers to ensure the good night's rest that you deserve."

The Replicas craned their heads around, frantically trying to find the speaker.

"God, don't tell me that's who I think it is," Assassin Z-3 whimpered.

But the object of the squad's dread was in plain sight, looming over them on the edge of the construction pit. It was a massive egg-shaped armored shell sitting atop a pair of metal legs that looked like they could survive re-entering the atmosphere several times. Its equally bulky mechanical arms supported two repeating rocket launchers, giving the entire machine the appearance of battle tank that had evolved into a bipedal organism.

This was the REV-6 Powered Armor, the suit that you'd only wear to your job if you believed you were in danger of being attacked by someone with a Howitzer.

It was not the machine's impressive armament the Zulu Squad feared; it was the individual named Zulu Nine who sat deep inside its armor-plated body. Put simply, Zulu Nine was a complete lunatic who loved to give product placements incessantly. Had he been a civilian, this would have landed him a high-paying position as an infomercial actor, but ATC had sadly neglected to allow their secret super-soldiers the freedom of career choice.

The cause of his strange behavior dated back to the conditioning ATC used to make the Replicas unswervingly obey their commander's objectives.

While the soldiers were listening to the subliminal recorded voices that told them to obey, (some ATC workers liked to joke that they'd got the idea from Microsoft) a technician had accidentally combined the signal going to Zulu Nine's headphones with the audio from a TV shopping channel being watched by an ATC employee in another part of the training facility. In every mental conditioning session he had, the hypnosis-dazed Zulu squad member heard things like this:

"Listen and obey all that your Commander orders. Listen toour customers as they give actual accounts of the amazing things that you can achieve with the WONDER-TOOL. Listen and obey GREG MOUNTAINE as he sings his greatest country music hits in these five classic albums. We have sold THOUSANDS OF THESE NIFTY LITTLE REFRIGERATOR MAGNETS that your Commander orders."

And so Zulu Nine did do as he was told, obeying his commander's orders as well as trying to solicit weed whackers, vegetable peelers, water sprayers, high-tech mattresses, and too many other things to count. Worse still, the advertising impulse had come to dominate his mind so much that he could not say anything unless he was promoting a product. The closest he could get to a conversation was to pick out some word from another person's sentence and use it in his advertisement.

Hence, the Zulu Squad had "forgotten" to bring him along when they left the Perseus compound. But what they hadn't realized was that it was impossible to have an advertiser without an advertisee. Zulu Nine had smashed through brick walls, broke through metal fences, and tore through doorways half his size in a single-minded effort to rejoin with his squad so he could cheerfully remind them to buy Haroldson X-Stream™ vibrating toothbrushes.

Heavy Armor Z-2 squealed in terror and waddled off to find a hiding spot. Zulu One used his newfound freedom to train his submachine gun on the REV-6, his squad following suit.

"Zulu Nine," he said through gritted teeth. "We're going to give you one chance to get away."

"Want to get away from it all, but still have the comforts of home? Introducing the new Campy Comforts™ Portable Toile-…"

He'd missed his chance. The squad opened fire, sending a hail of tracer fire streaking towards the powered armor unit like a waterfall.

The resounding clangs of bullets striking the exterior armor thankfully drowned out the rest of Zulu Nine's sales pitch, but did little else. The mechanized soldier had just continued standing there as if nothing had happened, and Zulu One could imagine him still wearing the endless grin on his face that he'd been told to wipe off thousands of times. Just imagining it sent a chill down his back.

"Squad, move out!" Zulu One shouted. They were happy to oblige.

Five minutes later, the team was free from Zulu Nine's clutches and safely lost in the Auburn district storm drain system. It had required them to break one of the drain's grates and forcibly remove Heavy Armor Z-2's bulky shoulder pads so he could fit through the opening they'd created, but they had all agreed that it was much better than having Zulu Nine within earshot. Zulu One had tried to communicate with the commander again, but their radio was still not working.

"Now can I eat?" Zulu Seven inquired hopefully. Save for heavy breathes of exhaustion, there was no answer.

"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then." He produced a ration from his vest's pocket, peeled off his balaclava, and began eagerly munching on his dehydrated meal.

The squad sat in near silence for a few minutes. The only noises to be heard were distant echoes of water drops hitting the concrete floor and the occasional crunch of Zulu Seven chewing on his energy bar.

Zulu Four was the first to speak. "So, what do we do now?" he asked openly.

"We'll recon the argiaanserferanegit," Zulu One mumbled dejectedly.

"What was that, sir? 'Recon the area and answer for a nugget?'" Assassin Z-3 asked.

"I'd gladly answer for a nugget," Zulu Seven offered, nearly half asleep after his dinner. The rest of the squad stared at him blankly. "A chicken one, I mean."

"I said, we'll recon the argianserferanegit," Zulu One said, raising his voice but being incomprehensible just the same.

"'Aryan serfs fornicate?' Are you feeling all right, sir?"

"I said, we'll recon the area and search for an exit!" Zulu One snapped.

"Okay, okay, all you had to do was speak clearly, sir."

After they'd finished with their break, they got back up and started their spelunking of the urban cavern that was the Auburn storm drain system. Before long, they reached a point where a lateral tunnel branched off from the main system.

"Squad, split up. We'll be able to cover more ground that way."

There was a soft giggle that sounded alarmingly close behind them. The squad whirled around to see a flash of what appeared to be a little girl in a red dress as she darted around a corner.

"What the hell?" Zulu One muttered. Suddenly, there was a painfully high-pitched whine of audio feedback in the squad's radio headsets that caused them to stumble back.

"All right, who's playing with his microphone?" Zulu One growled, turning to his team. They stared back at him helplessly. "Because we're not going an inch further until I find out."

There was a flash of blinding white light, and then the squad was standing in a storm drain tunnel where the lateral tunnel was the only route they could take. The other tunnel now led to a complete dead end.

"Give it back," a girl's disembodied voice said.

"Never mind, then." Zulu One said uneasily. "We'll stick together."

The squad was once again happy to obey. They traveled down the lateral tunnel without further incident for a few more minutes before they came across an elevated hatch in the wall. "SUBWAY SYSTEM ACCESS," the faded stenciled lettering on it read.

Zulu One wasn't exactly enthralled with the idea of staying in the storm drain for more than what was absolutely necessary, so he ordered his squad to open the hatch. Unfortunately, it was too rusted to even budge. The squad members each unsuccessfully tried to open the hatch like the knights who tried to pull the sword from the stone.

"Wagghhh," Heavy Armor Z-2 growled ferally after he saw each squad member be defeated by the stubborn hatch. He lined himself up with the hatch, took a few steps backward, and—

CRASH!

The access hatch caved inward and broke off its hinges as the Heavy Armor slammed his massive shoulder plate against it.

The Zulu Squad cheered like a group of drunken sports fans at a football game.

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Bob Westing, the security guard at the subway station the Zulu Squad had just broken into, was used to the shenanigans of pranksters. He'd seen the shenanigans in malls, parking lots, drug stores, and just about everywhere else you could think of. And each time he came these shenanigans, it was his duty to stop them. It was his duty as a security guard. And frankly, he was starting to get damn sick of it.

He had just been starting to think that his shift would be uneventful as usual when he heard the loud crash from inside the maintenance corridor that connected the subway with the storm drain. "It's those urban explorers again, most likely,"he thought tiredly as he walked over to the door that led to the maintenance corridor.

"Wait for my signal," a voice from behind the door said. Westing rolled his eyes. Of all the times to pull off an elaborate prank, why did it have to be tonight? It was very dangerous to be sneaking around anywhere near the police blockade; he'd heard on the news that the Auburn crisis was intensifying.

He decided it would be best to break it up before they had a chance to start. He opened the door to find himself staring face to face with a man wearing what looked like Vietnam-era tiger-stripe camouflage fatigues, a flak jacket, and a futuristic helmet with a black visor. Behind him, jam-packed in the corridor's tight space, were a few other similarly dressed hooligans. Further back was a person wearing an impossibly heavy-looking metallic suit with glowing blue goggles. All of them were heavily armed. He was just beginning to pray that their guns were all Airsoft models or props when the man in front spoke up.

"It's a civilian!" he shouted. "Take him down!"

There was a brief awkward pause as the soldiers shuffled around, trying to find firing positions that wouldn't cause them to shoot another squad member in the back. Westing, not wanting to test for certain to see if their firearms used live rounds, took off like a rocket for his office. He was in too much of a state of panic to realize until it was too late that he'd entered the women's restroom, not his office.

-----------------------------------------------

Outside, he could hear the hooligans walking around the station. "There's no one else here," one of them said. It sounded almost like a complaint.

"Assassin Z-3 and Zulu Seven, sweep the women's restroom. Zulu Four and Heavy Armor Z-2, sweep the men's restroom. The rest of us will check the station again."

"Sweep the bathrooms, sir?" another voice said. Bob noticed with a chill down his spine that their voices were exactly the same. It was impossible it was someone talking to himself; he'd head the voices from different directions.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"No offense, sir, but why would you want us to sweep the bathroom? We're trying to find this civilian, not clean up the place."

"I mean 'sweep' as in 'search the area.' Now shut up if you know what's good for you."

Bob was torn in between finding the situation morbidly humorous or terrifying. Either he'd fled from a group of mischievous pranksters who liked to stay in character for whatever goofy parts they were playing, or he'd fled from some bungling paramilitary force that was trying to hunt him down. If it were the latter, was it possible these were the guys that were responsible for the Auburn crisis? They certainly didn't seem like the Islamic extremists he'd thought they were.

Regardless, he backed into a stall, shut the door, and readied his taser, training it on the stall's door that he knew would be opened by the hooligans in a short order of time. He considered radioing for help, but he decided against it when he realized that the noise would make his position even more obvious.

He heard the bathroom door open, followed by the sound of two pairs of boots on the checkered black and white tile of the floor. "Let's check the stalls," one of them said. "He's got to be in here somewhere."

He could hear blood pounding in his ears, giving a strange beat to the restroom's hellish easy listening music. He was about to find out for certain how serious these guys were…

The second stall door to his right was kicked open. There was the deafening sound of a shotgun blast, and Bob could feel chunks of plaster and ceramic raining down on him. There was no doubt about it know: they meant business. "Please, God, don't let there have been someone in there," he prayed.

"Damn it, we're to eliminate all civilians, not toilets!"

"Sorry. My nerves are getting to me," another voice apologized. "I'm feeling hungry again."

"I'll take the next one."

Bob was about to sigh in relief when he heard the next stall kicked open, the one right next to his. This time there was a smashing sound, and Bob could see water from other stall pooling on the floor.

"Ha! It seems the Graceful Assassin messes up and breaks things when he's nervous, too!"

"Shut up."

"I'll take the next stall. And this time, I'll be the first to not attack a goddam toilet."

"You'd better not."

Bob had one second to brace himself before the door flew open. But the shooter was staring ahead obliviously, not consciously noticing him at all.

"See? I'm not shooting at the toilet--wait, there he-…" The soldier's delayed reaction was enough for Bob to act; he fired the stun gun at him.

Zulu Seven cried out in surprise and pain as the taser shocked him. In a fraction of a second he was down like a rock. Assassin Z-3 could only stare as the civilian burst out of the stall, running and pushing him over at the same time. Z-3 was still in disbelief when his head smacked against the post of a stall, rendering him unconscious.

Zulu One realized fairly quickly that something was wrong when the civilian burst out of the women's bathroom, screaming in panic when he saw the rest of the squad standing outside. Unless one of his squad members had killed the civilian and swapped clothes with him, that was. It pleased Zulu One when he found himself considering such possibilities, even if they were pathetically implausible or downright moronic. It made him feel like a man prepared for all contingencies. Besides, "contingency" was kind of a cool word.

But Zulu One's contingency planning ability was proven wrong when he received a rather nasty uppercut to the jaw from the security guard. He dimly heard gunshots as his squad opened fire on the fleeing guard.

"He's too fast!" Zulu Five and Zulu Six screamed. Bob Westing was too fast—for the clumsy members of the Zulu Squad, that was. By mere comparison, their lack of skill and discipline had made them view a simple desperate security officer as being an elite warrior on par with the Point Man.

"Take him down! Don't let him escape!" Zulu One moaned as he got back on his feet. He trained his submachine gun on the guard, who was already near the top of the subway station's stairs. Before he could even fire a single burst the guard had closed the station entrance's sliding metal gate, sealing them off.

The squad regrouped and planned about how they would escape, oblivious to the much greater problem plaguing the rest of the battalion, which now consisted of a large group of useless, inactive husks. Paxton Fettel was dead.

For the moment, at least…