Chapter Six

Pedersen began to scream. After all, what was he to do? He watched helplessly as his body was tossed around a tunnel of light like a rag doll, careering through nothingness, bouncing back and forth between imperceptible barriers. Was there even a Converse? Or had he been sent to die a mortifying death in a wormhole? Pedersen shielded his eyes as he began to approach a screen of blinding light at an impossible speed, the pressure blasting his face. Of course. This was simply the rift between the two dimensions. The oncoming light was the true portal. Pedersen gasped desperately for breath, his arms flailing powerlessly. The portal was inching closer and closer. Or was he moving? He began to think of random thoughts, distracting himself from the fear in the back of his mind. Hot water freezes faster than cold water. The hottest inhabited place in the world is in Ethiopia. But what was the Converse like? Hot, cold? No matter what absolutely random fact he thought of, his mind always circled back to the matter at hand. He was going to hit the portal any minute now. Bracing for impact, Pedersen closed his eyes and his mouth, curling into a ball and clenching his fists. Three, two....

Like a meteor breaching the atmosphere, Pedersen shot through the portal, catapulting through a crisp, wintery sky. His question had been answered. The Converse was cold. For a split second, Pedersen was a ball in the air, before the laws of gravity caught up to him and sent him free-falling back down to the ground, landing in a mound of snow. Disoriented, he lifted his head, staring at the blood-stained snow underneath him, and the handful of teeth that had been knocked right out of his mouth. Pedersen spat out a sickening clump of snow, dirt and blood from his mouth, before his vision began to turn hazy. He glanced at the landscape around him, panting breathlessly, before his head hit the ground once more as he fainted out of the blue.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯

The Suit sat at his desk, dabbing a handkerchief on his bloody face. Simultaneously, he wrapped a cast around his severely injured arm, covering up the bruises from Project: Vortex's explosion. The most spectacular failure he had witnessed in his life. His machine? Blown to kingdom come. The laboratory? Obliterated. Everything the Armament Society had worked towards went up in smoke. It left a mark on every single person involved, physically and figuratively. It would take years to rebuild the project, especially after most of the scientists had been left either disabled or dead. A collection of the Armament Society's best and brightest were now either paralyzed, comatose or no longer living. The Suit was one of the lucky few who had retained injuries, yet remained relatively functional. This was all thanks to pure luck. The Suit finished bandaging his arm and effacing his face, pouring himself an excessive glass of red wine. He held it up to his lips with a trembling hand, taking a modest sip.

"Ooh! Zinfandel?" a familiar, condescending voice called out from the doorway. "That stuff is strong. Mm. I love how the effects just kick in like that."

"Jonas, it is irritating how you only seem to show up whenever you want to drink my wine," the Suit said, taking another sip. "Why not just ransack my private collection?"

Jonas poured himself a reasonable glass, savoring the taste and potency.

"I didn't come here for a drink. I came to ask, what the heck happened back there? You let your life's work slip right through your fingers. It never ceases to amaze me how little attention you pay to details."

The Suit blew a raspberry.

"Yeah, well, apparently I wasn't thinking. I made the decision to send Adrianus through that portal, and boom! We're all blasted backwards by a magnificent shockwave. It sounds crazy when you say it out loud. But, hey, here we are, facing impending doom. You know, we don't even have that much time left. Doomsday clock says four days. Ninety six hours. We can't do anything to stop it."

"Of course you can," Jonas replied. The Suit raised an eyebrow.

"Look, if you're expecting answers from me, you know you can't rely on it," Jonas said with a sigh. "But I know you well enough to know that the Suit doesn't simply give up. You can't. You never have. Sure, Pedersen, Adelram and those incompetent inmates may very well be dead. But there are other people you can count on. You'll rebuild your machine. Who knows? You might even get to save the world."

"This is a first. You giving me advice."

The Suit and Jonas shared a laugh, clinking their glasses together.

"You're really that optimistic, huh? Even when the writing's on the wall?"

"Hey, I've always got surprises in store, Suit."

The Suit leaned back, slouching in his seat.

"Hey. I've got a great idea. You know, I heard Zinfandel goes great with chocolate desserts. I've got a fresh tray of brownies in the old Armament Society oven."

Jonas rose, bringing his drink with him.

"Ah, that's what I'm talking about. You coming?"

"Go ahead. There's something I have to take care of."

As Jonas' footsteps dissipated, the Suit set his glass down on his desk, picking up his telephone.

"Anthony? Yeah, I need you to do something for me. Call Sergeant Russell Chamberlain. Arrange a jet and a car to pick him up from D.C. Tell him I'll meet him at the drop zone."

As the Suit set his phone down, he paused for a moment. Pedersen was dead. He had to face facts. He couldn't mourn when the world was about to end. Therefore, he had to move on. And what better replacement for the Head of Security than the original?

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦

Pedersen gasped for breath, sitting bolt upright. His vision was still blurry and his head was throbbing, as if he were nursing a hangover. He looked around, weakly moving his head to scan his surroundings. He was sitting on a stretcher, his face bandaged, a glass of water on his bedside table. An IV drip was attached to his bulking forearm, his hairy chest enveloped in bandages. Where was he? A hospital? From the looks of it, he was being treated in a dimly lit room, barely able to see anything around him. A fire crackled in the corner, holding on to its last scraps of kindling. It wasn't much of a hospital at all. Pedersen extended his shaking hand, reaching for the glass of water. As he outstretched his arm, he found his hand numb and infirm, barely able to move. His massive, flimsy hand unwittingly swatted the glass aside, shoving it off of the table. Instantaneously, the glass shattered on the floor, leaving nothing but shards and a minuscule puddle of water. Pedersen sighed. He was not in control of his body. He didn't even have the strength to command it. With a pained groan, Pedersen jerked the IV drip out of his arm, flinging the blanket off of his body. He staggered unsteadily towards a lofty, reinforced steel door, throwing his hands onto the handle. It was pathetic. He couldn't even open the door. Pedersen's head began to slump, colliding with the door.

"What should we do with him?" a muffled voice said from behind the door.

Pedersen's head perked up.

"He was like that when we found him. What, should we let him heal?"

"What good will a sickly soldier do? We might as well kill him."

'Kill him.' Pedersen instantly knew they were talking about him. In the condition he was in, he wouldn't stand a chance. He couldn't open a door, let alone put up a fight. But he had to. He once fought with a broken arm in the jungles of Peru. Of course, this was a different situation. He had to use every ounce of his power. What was left of it, at least. He couldn't curl up in a ball and let them kill him. He was a warrior. He could defend himself. And that was exactly what he was going to do. With a struggling groan, Pedersen twisted the handle and pushed the complaining door open with his body, stumbling onto an ice-cold balcony. Pedersen, barefoot and indecent, was instantaneously bombarded with icy wind, sent tumbling backwards into the dingy room.

"Well, well. Look who's awake."

Pedersen limply rose to his feet, standing tall yet unsteady. At the doorway stood Viktor Hernandez, decked in Armament Society-issued gear and armed with a rifle. Hernandez gagged, shielding his eyes and turning away.

"Whoa. You really need some clothes on, ese."

"Oh," Pedersen muttered sheepishly. "Right."

Pedersen fumbled for any piece of clothing, anything he could wear. Under his stretcher, he found his polo and personal protective equipment, hastily slipping into it.

"You can, erm..."

"Right. Okay. Well, that won't keep you alive in this climate."

Hernandez selected a bushy fur coat from a hanging rack, tossing it to Pedersen.

"This place is much colder than Norway. You can tell."

"But where are we now? Don't tell me you made a tower out of scratch."

"Of course not, cabrón. We think the Society made it. An outpost for otherworldly operations. Come. I'll show you around."

Pedersen reluctantly trudged after Hernandez, down a spiraling staircase encircling a rangy, steel tower. The tower's height was lined with windows, slabs of glass carved into the metal. The tower was four storeys tall, expanding into an underground bunker below its entrance. The flight of stairs touched down on a path of cleared snow, lined with stone. Hernandez pushed through a metal door into a dingy, circular room, stocked with crates cluttering a diminutive fireplace.

"This is where we've set up shop so far. Not exactly a mansion, but it was the best we could do."

Hernandez turned, his rifle at the ready.

"I could kill you if I wanted. Don't think of this as mercy. We all need you for our own survival," Hernandez growled.

Pedersen chuckled, crouching to meet Hernandez's eyes.

"I don't think you could."

Pedersen brushed past Hernandez, scanning the inky, unlit room. Conrad sat at a bestrewn table in the corner, tinkering with his mind control headset. Ramona sifted through Armament Society manuals and inventory books, searching for objects in the crates. Cyrus held a skinned, skewered ground squirrel over the weak fire, staring ravenously at his butchered game. Pedersen whirled around to face Hernandez, who polished the muzzle of his gun.

"Why are there only five of us? What happened to Adelram and Alden?"

Hernandez shrugged, his face an expression of slight sorrow. Pedersen thundered forward, lifting him by his coat.

"Hey. What happened to them? Answer me when I ask you a question!"

"Get your darn hands off me, idiota! I don't know what happened to those two, but as far as we know, they might as well be mincemeat in that portal!"

Pedersen dropped Hernandez. Could they really be dead? Pedersen had never thought highly of Adelram during their brief time knowing each other, but he'd been willing to make amends. Especially now that he'd identified the cause of this hatred, something he had never explored; the Suit. But what of Hugo? He was only in his prime years. It was a shame to see someone young with potential like that disappear from the world forever. The world stripped of what they could be. Tears streamed from his eyes as Pedersen did the very thing that he never thought he could; mourning the loss of criminals. Pedersen stifled his tears, hastily rifling through open crates.

"Hey, hey. What are you doing?" Ramona asked.

"You might have lost hope, but I haven't," Pedersen grunted, brandishing a swab.

"What's that for?"

"For what we set out to do when we set foot here. To collect samples and save the world."

Pedersen's thundering footsteps boomed towards the door.

"What's the point? We'll die here without a way back."

"Well, I'm not giving in. Not even to the overwhelming might of the enemy."

"Winston Churchill," Cyrus said, recognizing the quote.

"That's good."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘚𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘥, 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺

The Suit stood at the far end of the Warren's hangar, the one carved into the surface of a snow-capped mountain. His men had arranged a private jet to escort Sergeant Chamberlain, and the Suit had decided to await him so he could greet him in person. The Suit glanced at his wristwatch. It was midnight on the dot. Back when the Suit was training in martial arts in Kyoto, his sensei had taught him the secret of fending off sleep deprivation, hunger, thirst. All chains that held mankind back from its true potential. But the Suit always believed in taking whatever steps were necessary to stave off unwanted pests. The Suit reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and brandished an inhaler, holding it up to his nose. As he engulfed the powder, all fatigue instantly receded from his eyes, and a spark burned inside both of them. An awakened power. The Suit tucked the inhaler back into his jacket, sniffling. The jet was to arrive any second now.

As minutes passed, the Suit stopped to consider his appearance. How it affected his reputation, his employees' perception of him. He had stood at the hangar for hours now, like a simpering, lovesick schoolboy awaiting a childhood infatuation. A sudden anger ignited in his heart, before he stopped to think. Who was he angry at? What had fired his anger? He stumbled as he began to regain his senses. Had he had another episode? What was going on? Once his anger was kindled, almost all of his judgment was lost temporarily. He was nothing but a mindless barbarian. His deepest insecurity had come back to haunt him. No. He couldn't greet Sergeant Chamberlain like this. The Suit grabbed his bowler hat from the top of his head and turned, before hearing the roar of an engine. An Armament Society jet engine. The Suit watched as the hangar doors slid open, and a massive, pearl-white jet streaked in, dragging the glacial wind and specks of snow in its wake. The jet's side door opened and was pushed downwards, becoming a staircase. Down the staircase descended Sergeant Chamberlain himself, decked out in his complete military vestments, topped with a polished badge.

"Sergeant Chamberlain," the Suit said with a perfectly rehearsed smile, extending his hand. Chamberlain reached for it and shook it firmly, meeting the Suit's eyes, hidden behind blacked-out sunglasses.

"Mr. Suit. You forgot, it's Sergeant Major Chamberlain now."

"Oh, yes, of course. How foolish of me."

"Oh, my, it's been a while. How've you been? You look as though you're keeping well."

"I am, thanks. Do you fancy a meal? You must be exhausted from your trip. Please, I have taken the liberty of preparing a late middag."

"Yes, I'm famished."

"Great. Follow me."

The Suit led the Sergeant through the Warren's winding corridors and hallways, past sealed doors and staircases to a spacious banquet hall, an elongated table spanning from one end of the room to the other. Beside it was a smaller table carved from sandalwood, topped with a screen of glass, dotted with two plates covered by cloches. A butler stood by the table, a napkin draped over his arm, a bottle in his other hand. The Suit took a seat on one end of the table and gestured for Chamberlain to do the same. The butler gently poured champagne into each of their flutes, setting the bottle on the table. He then lifted the cloches from the silverware, revealing pan-seared, filleted bluefin tuna, accompanied by chopped, fresh radishes and geoduck. Chamberlain lifted his glass, sloshing its contents.

"Come on. Drink for once. It's a 2013 Taste of Diamonds. One of the most expensive champagne brands in the world. It's a luxury."

Chamberlain lifted the flute to his mouth, taking a light sip of the champagne.

"Mm. Wow. You're right."

"I'm never wrong," the Suit said, slicing off a chunk of the tuna with his table knife and inserting it into his mouth with his fork, savoring the tender, creamy taste.

"So I heard about what happened yesterday."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I have my sources. Project: Vortex failed. Even after eleven years in research and development, two billion dollars invested into the cause. It still malfunctioned."

The Suit set his cutlery down and sighed.

"It had a 5% failure rate. The odds were very much in our favor. They were acceptable. Yet we still underperformed."

"All right," Chamberlain said. "Now, why am I here? Surely you didn't simply invite an old friend to dinner, did you?"

The Suit chuckled.

"No, Sergeant Major. I arranged to have you brought here because the Armament Society and I are in need of a new Head of Security."

"A new Head of Security? What happened to the Norwegian? What was his name?"

"Mr. Pedersen, I'm afraid, is no longer with us. He was one of the unfortunate few who was sent through the vortex. Now, we've lost our best agent and six prisoners. He was the Head of Security, too. You're one of the only people I have left to call on for this position."

"What's the point? The world will be dead in a matter of days."

"That's exactly why. We found a way to reignite Project: Vortex. A new shipment of quark gluon plasma. The problem is, it's in enemy hands. I'll need a strong leader. One who can command a squadron to complete a mission successfully. I know you have your duties in the Army, but we need you, Sergeant. What do you say?"

"I say..." Chamberlain said with a hesitant pause. The Suit raised an eyebrow.

"I say yes. I'll help you out."

"Then I believe there is much to celebrate."

The Suit lifted his glass.

"Cheers."

Simultaneously, the Suit's secretary burst through the doors of the banquet hall, scurrying to their table. Anthony leaned downwards and whispered indistinctly into the Suit's ear.

"What? How is that even possible?"

Chamberlain perked up.

"What? What is it?"

The Suit sighed and looked Chamberlain in the eye.

"Sergeant, there will be another mission for you to lead. Two of the prisoners arranged to enter the Converse have escaped. We believe they've rigged the machine to escort them to safety rather than through the portal."

"How would someone do such a thing?"

"We don't know. But what we do know is that the two of them are on Earth. We can use our facial recognition technology to locate them, retrieve them, and ensure they receive the punishment they deserve. And mark my words, they will."