It is Sunday. Today I will make an exception to my normally quite secular life. I will go to church. "Shouldn't you be in Mass or something?" Hap shakes his head with a sad, beaten-dog look to him. "This is when we're the most vulnerable. Security has to be really tight." The big man shifts his feet. We stand near the tube entrance to the Church of Sirius, he watching people, me, watching him. Hap has changed; before, the sadness of his situation, his very shitty situation, was hidden, masked by the various tasks he occupied himself with. Now the melancholy is apparent. "You believed Flannery, didn't you?" "Quiet Karl," he orders, hoisting up a heavy stun pike and striding towards a latecomer. "Excuse me, brother, but we must check every twentieth for weapons," he says. The churchman frowns. "Are weapons not permitted?" "Certainly not! This is a house of peace, not a temple to war." The man glances around, praying not to be seen. "Well, your brothers in security seem to have everything under control . . ." He slips a small revolver from his garments and turns it over to Hap. The bodyguard palms the weapon, his broad hand disappearing momentarily into his robes. They exchange a few brief words, and then Hap pats him on the back and allows him entrance. Hap steps back to his post beside the Church's main gate. He smiles grimly. "What was that about?" I ask. "Brother just came in from the South Projects. Megapol's itching to throw us out down there, on account of . . . Friday." Hap gives a thumbs up to several green-robes discretely loitering around the tube gate. "Scanner crew," he mumbles. "They pick up weapons- carriers. I get to talk them into ditching them." "I thought church people didn't carry," I comment, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Some of the brothers are getting scared. They want everyone to be armed." Everyone armed. A weight over my bladder. Just like me. "That would just piss off the Popo." How the hell did that scanner crew not pick up my plasma? "Exactly. Of course, not all of Father Flannery's flock consists of geniuses." Hap pauses a moment, his fingers drumming on the shaft of his pike. "Course, after Friday . . ." My plasma. I look away and snort. I wonder how Hap's been taking it-- after killing some of his former comrades-in-arms . . . WHA-A-A-AM! "I too have killed." Who cares about Hap--I wonder how I've been dealing with it. The act was so instinctual; it didn't even register on my senses until about three hours later, back at my apartment. Drinking water, reading sci-fi fan fiction on the Intranet, occasionally sneaking a peek at some less-than-family oriented 'art,' shaving, realizing halfway through a bucket of takeout Chinese that I'd just wasted a man--killed a man! My eyes going wide, calmly setting down the chopsticks, and sitting down in my most comfortable cane chair. Killed a man. "I too have killed." Damn Nilwar! Damn him to hell! Now my hands are just as soaked in blood as the rest of this lot I call my friends. Friends? Where is Nat? Where is Wolf . . . oh damn. "Hap, where is Wolf?" The big guy snorts. "The Labyrinth." "What?" "Maximum security Megapol jail. Housing for ten thousand inmates, two thousand guards-" "No, I mean, why are they shipping him there?" "Terrorism, I think." "Fuck, he didn't have a weapon on him! He was trying to save Bolivar!" "Quiet, Karl. A lot--and I mean it--a lot of people here didn't like what happened on Friday. And watch your language." "Who would enjoy that massacre? Senator Yuan?" Hap rolls his eyes. "I misphrased that. A lot of people here didn't agree with Flannery's alliance with the Front." "Huh?" "Dropping the droid ban is one thing to idea men like yourself--concept people, the real smart folks who went all four years at Lifetree--but down on the pavement it's another thing. People are really afraid of droids. The companies threaten to replace them with robots, and when you're not bringing in five hundred dollars a week, you don't take losing your job lightly." "You aren't serious." Hap shrugs. "I happen to agree with Flannery. It's stupid; the companies just want us to waste all our energy fighting each other. But the fear is real; I've heard the scuttlebutt. All that shit that went down didn't help any, either." MegaPrime, just like the Babylon of old. Cursed to forever speak different languages. I sigh. "How is Flannery taking it?" I ask, really meaning, "How are you taking it?" It's Hap's turn to sigh. "He's been delegating most of his leadership duties to Brother Cassler. He spent yesterday talking to God." "Praying?" "No. That's just begging for answers. Father Flannery believes that God isn't some external force raining down inspiration and advice; God is actually inside here." Hap taps his hooded head. "When Flannery speaks to God, he meditates over something, looking for the answers himself. He thinks and thinks and doesn't bother with things like eating, and eventually he'll organize everything into a checklist of things to be accomplished." "That sounds an awful lot like brainstorming." "That it does, but Flannery does it with such an overriding concern as to whether his checklist would get approval from the big guy upstairs. He's always asking, 'Is this right? Should I be doing this? Can I explain this to Him?'" "Hmm." I am still doubtful. "Try it sometime. It's harder than it sounds." "Sure." "You might be doubtful, but you would be surprised by the number of stupid, pointless things we do just because they are routine. Habit--inertia--is a powerful enemy of change for the better. Truly gifted, truly aware people, like Flannery, ask those questions so many times that they become part of their essence, part of their being." I am silent. Spiritualism is not a trait of mine. The man in white would not hesitate for a moment to die for his people, the people of his Church, the people of his city, the people of his planet. He is a trained martyr, having spent the last twenty five years of his life making peace with Him and himself. The cross, the gallows, a stake with firewood stacked beneath it . . . these would have been his lot in centuries past. But this is the twenty first century and he is offered none of those most romantic demises. Instead, a heavy plasma pistol, black and ugly with its clip jammed into the right upper side of its chamber like some sort of conscious afterthought is shoved into the back of his head. The short, salt-and-pepper gray hairs on his neck twitch. He continues to quietly pray, his hands pressed together, his knees upon the worn rug on his office's floor. But he is a selfish bastard! Brimming with righteousness and benevolence--oh, what a purely condescending, self-centered act! To buy a seat in the pantheon of history's great with a single blast of superheated elerium through his motor cortex! To gain eternity while damning all us wretched footsoldiers forced to toil onward in his memory! No, Father, I will not let you die. My plasma comes up, out, and I doubletap each of the trenchcoated soldiers. Two bolts into the one who holds the plasma pistol. Two for his friend who stands to the side. Both buckle; the second man spins like a marionette stricken and loses his beret. He staggers backwards for a moment; then Hap is firing, his nine millimeter ceramic beating him down. "FATHER!" roars the churchman. The big beret snaps around, his pistol tracking me. My plasma rumbles four more times, each bolt slamming into his chest, canvas overcoat flaming, body armor flaring. I have hit him in the heart. He should be dead. He doesn't go down. Somewhere in the back of my head, I recognize his face . . . "Andy?" Red irises, red pupils. A bolt lances between me and Hap, another grazes my shoulder. My skin crisps up, and I'm diving to the left, and Hap to the right. The pilot has the sense of mind to loose a burst at the android, clipping his head. Andy's left ear is cleaned off, the bullet tearing the latex mask of his face. Another round sails into his left eyebrow, shredding his blue-and-black beret as it ricochets off his cydonium skull. "He's a droid!" I shout, scrambling for cover. Ramirez crouches, steading his M4000 with both hands. A stray shot will kill Flannery. His face an ugly snarl, the Latino works the trigger. Andy takes the first burst in his abdomen, blasting away his light body armor and skin. He holds still, sighting up his weapon on Ramirez's head. Hap fires barely in time; he hits Andy in the thigh, throwing the droid's aim off. A plasma beam catches Ramirez in the shoulder and throws him down. I center the droid's right red pupil. THOOMTHOOMTHOOMTHOOM. A heavy silence that reeks of ozone and nitrocellulose floods Flannery's office. Andy's body tenses up, his plasma falling from his cramping fingers. Twitching and shuddering, he struggles to remain standing; he fails. The headless corpse crashes to the floor. "Dios mio," coughs Ramirez. "Father, are you OK?" asks Hap. I turn to Ramirez. The former shopkeeper lays in a splash of his own blood, the charred mush of his left shoulder an oozing, nasty sore. Hap and I had been eating, and Ramirez just walked in with his Cecilia and their three children. I nodded to him and smiled. Then I saw his green robe. My smile turned tired. A better fate than life in the slums, yes? But I remembered what had happened on Friday. I remembered what it meant for men to guard the Father Flannery. And now this. "Eres un hombre valeroso," I stammer, my eyes locked onto the sight of Ramirez's wound. He chuckles, his other hand still clutching his assault rifle. "Es nada." It might be nothing to a Megapol or Marsec security tough or anybody else with access to a Nanotech suite, but Ramirez is classified as "none of the above". He's in a world of shit, and once the initial shock wears off, a world of pain, too. "We gotta get you to the Clinic," I state. "It's nothing," he repeats. "I must return to my family." Ramirez sets down the M4000 and then calmly strips the green robe off, all the while cradling his left arm against his body--a sick animal, huddling close . . . He stares me in the eyes. "The Megapol is coming. Cecilia will be worried." I swallow uneasily, disgusted that I feel relieved at not having to deal with the problem. That wound is not a clean one. "Vaya con Dios." "El mismo," he replies, marching back towards the distant cafeteria where we met. "Hey, where's he going?" asks Hap. "He's got to get to his family." I answer. "Well, we gotta get Flannery out of here! I still can't raise the main entrance or the garages! Someone's taken out our com relays!" "Or killed everyone there," I mutter. Hap strides over and retrieves Ramirez's rifle. "Damn idiot," he snarls. "He had to go." The pilot stares at me like I'm deserting him too. "Well, he could have . . . we're wasting time. We've got to get, now." "If you don't mind, I won't be accompanying you." Both of us turn to Father Flannery. "What?" asks Hap. "I'm not leaving." I roll my eyes. If Hap hadn't tried to contact the main gate, we wouldn't have known until it was too late. If his instincts hadn't sent us scrambling for Flannery instead of checking on the problem up front, we would've been in the wrong place. And now the martyr complains! "That wouldn't be a wise choice." This time it is all three of us who turn our heads. It is the other beret, a bloody pool of gore spreading around him. I recall his brown hair and eyes. It is the one known as Carlson. A thin, silver grenade rests in his right hand. "We were sent here with ten minutes' notice regarding a Megapol raid," he sighs, his chest shattered by Hap's rounds. "In about one minute--if they haven't started already--Altacat Battalion is coming through every door, window, and sewer grate you've got in here. We just wanted to remove Mr. Flannery from this situation and have a chat with him regarding some fairly trivial matters--kill two birds with one stone, as they used to say. "Unfortunately," he smiles, drying blood on his lips, "you guys had to show up. Now, Druski is dead, and I'm pretty much fucked, so it's up to you two jokers to get Mr. Flannery's ass out of here before those crazies start tearing this place apart." I glance at Hap. He rests a broad hand on Flannery's shoulder. "Come on, Father." Flannery stands, walks over to the dying man, and kisses him lightly on the forehead. He turns to Hap. "You didn't need to kill these men." Exasperated, Hap mouthes some epithets and heads for the doorway. "Now, if you don't mind," coughs Carlson, "I'll be dying." "Uh, Mr. Flannery?" I ask. He peers at me through his blue eyes, and I wonder what he sees . . . a Diablo thug? Slum scum? Certainly not any guardian angel. But he does not wear the visage of hatred or resentment, or even disgust. Could it be forgiveness? I don't need his pity. A distant explosion rocks the Church. "Tactical channels just got jammed!" yells Hap. "It's not Megapol, it's not one of their messages . . ." The internal PA crackles to life. "TRAITORS REPENT! YOU WHO GLADLY WEAR THE YOKE OF ALIEN DOMINATION PREPARE FOR THE CLEANSING FIRES OF RACE OF MAN!" I whistle lowly. "Oh shit." We move at Flannery's pace, down back hallways and maintenance lifts. Moments after we clear his office, a great wall of flame crashes from the door. Carlson has just suicided, his dying hands dropping an incendiary grenade to the worn rug floor. "It's not Altacat Batallion?" I shout to Hap. "No! They might play a little rough, but they play by Megapol's rules! Damn, I almost wish it was them." "I thought Race of Man died out after the First War!" Hap taps a garbage chute's access panel, enabling its secondary function as an emergency fire escape. "They are very much alive," he replies. The lights dim as the floor shakes from a blast above us. "The unknown is always greeted by fear and hostility," adds Flannery. "Wasn't your dad Race of Man?" That doesn't shut him up for a second. Flying down the red-lit garbage chute: "Certainly not! My father was an XCOM pilot!" "Weren't they the same thing?" Hap touches down ahead of us amongst bales of compacted scrap metals and plastics. Under normal circumstances, gravitron waves would smash garbage into these tidy packages before robots and groundtrucks transported them back to Evonet to be reintroduced into the consumer cycle. "As two brothers," Flannery cryptically replies. "Shut up! This is the parking level!" chides Hap as we jog down a poorly-lit corridor. He points the tip of Ramirez's M4000 around a corner. "The Paloma's twenty meters down this aisle," he reports. He steps around the corner and just as quickly hops back, the thunder of automatic rifle fire lingering in the dank, subterranean atmosphere. "Two of 'em," he gasps. I look down at Hap's robes. A growing blotch of crimson mars his left side. "Shit! You're hit!" "Fuck, I know." He pauses a moment, settling his machine gun into his arms. "I'll draw fire. Karl, you're a helluva shot--lean around the corner and clean 'em off me as fast as you can." "What? If they can hit you with-" But Hap is already leaping out onto the concrete. I set my jaw and swing my arm out. Tracking, tracking. Two, just like Hap said. Squeeze squeeze. A helmeted, jumpsuit-wearing man with an M4000 flips on his back. Next. Squeeze squeeze. His partner spins with the first bolt, a grav ballerina. The second shot . . . his skull is a bucket of chum, lazily splashed across the windscreen of a groundcar. The first man down is still twitching. A volley of bullets from Hap kicks away his rifle and perforates his chest. "Let's move," grunts Hap. Hap coaxes La Paloma forwards, tapping away on his BAT and oblivious to the spreading crimson circle on his robes. The manual flight yoke emerges from the dash. Flannery sits in the back, silent. Our driver is just as quiet as he pulls us into the exit lane for groundcars. Two Wolfhound APCs block our progress, their heavy frames profiled against the noon sky. Squat and ugly, they are glossy black with only thin, pale blue trim around the heavy cydonium armor flaps that hide their sympathetic grav drives. Cannon fire lashes out from one, but Hap is already edging La Paloma's throttle up to its maximum groundspeed, skidding out of sight behind a row of powered-down autotaxis. The yellow cabs absorb the barrage, thermoplastic and light metal frames exploding like porcelain under a hammer. "Let's try the air exit," he suggests, pulling us around a corner. I can hear the Wolfhounds' sirens. The nose goes up, and La Paloma no longer feigns flightlessness. I frantically buckle myself in as the chrome-studded front bumper narrowly avoids striking florescent lights. But the ceiling suddenly gives way, and we are underneath the cylindrical shaft of The Church of the Open Door's airborne entrance. A tiny blue hovercar waits high above. La Paloma roars skyward, bound on a collision course with the scoutcar. Hap's fingers twitch. The Gazelle shudders and skips away, a spray of alloy confetti flaking off its underside. We are airborne. "Shit," whistles Hap. "What?" A spray of cannon rounds rips past us, phosphor tracers etching lines across my eyes. Hap shoves the yoke forwards with one hand, dropping a flare with the other. We immediately drop fifty meters as the elerium bomb detonates. My aerial nightmare has begun. "We're going north," Hap states, throwing La Paloma into a gut-wrenching evasive spiral through an upper class neighborhood. "Friendship House?" asks Flannery from the back seat. "No," answers the pilot, twitching as his threat screen registers a missile launch. Stunted sequoias and spruce flash by as we go to ground, diving behind glassy rows of luxury apartments and small mansions. The missile detonates far behind us. "That was an abort. They won't fire at us while we're in here," mutters Hap. A sole cannon round smacks the rear of La Paloma. A wireframe model of our Phoenix blinks red, one of its tailfins hit. "Maybe not," I reply. Hap agrees, charting out a violent, jagged path through the low hills and manicured woods that make up the Senators' villas. Ground fire from concealed anti-aircraft turrets opens up on us. Hap dodges behind a Sensovision-owned apartment. His threat screen lights up, and I glance up in time to see the first wave of Gazelles charge us. La Paloma takes a burst of armor-piercing rounds. I am thrashed around violently, my breath hammered out by my flight harness. "Fuck," rasps Hap, skidding the Phoenix in midair. My eyelids peeled back, I watch, stunned, as La Paloma's twin cannon line up with a fleeing Gazelle. The lazily swinging LED crosshairs frame the scoutcar; the whole bird shudders, anti-grav engines struggling to counteract the kick of the two twenty millimeters . . . The Gazelle's rear end flames. A half-second later, the front end of the car explodes into the Sensovision apartment. Shattering thermoplastic windows leap outwards, a ripple of destruction marring the clean, sharp lines of the apartment. "North," Hap mumbles, reminding himself. La Paloma ducks low again, the Popo hovercars coming back for another pass. Depleted uranium rounds walk the street behind before Hap can pull into an alley. "Where are we going?" Flannery asks from the back. The man in white's universally acknowledged patience is wearing thin. "Prospectors, people who can get you out of town to safety." "I don't want to leave MegaPrime." "Then you'll be buried here," snarls Hap, punching the throttle as La Paloma clears the residential area. A pair of Gazelles drop out of the sky on our tail. I am slammed about as La Paloma starts taking regular hits. "That doesn't bother me." The Nutrivend Northtown shopping complex, in all its transparent thermoplastic glory, looms up on us. Hap struggles with La Paloma's controls; more and more of the wireframe damage model is flashing red. "Listen, I'm supposed to protect you!" A cannon slug rips through the rear canopy, misses my shoulder by a centimeter, and slams into the dash. "Shit! Shit!" I yell, sparks and smoke flooding the cabin. "I won't have anyone else's death on my hands! Drop me off and make good your escape!" La Paloma roars in underneath the Nutrivend mall at five hundred kilometers per hour. The Gazelles are still hot on our tail; tracers flash past the windscreen, some striking the underside of Northtown. "What? You're not serious!" "I am. You've done enough. I won't have you martyred with me." The broad matte gray of the North Wall rushes up to greet us on the other side of the mall. Hap twists the flight yoke back, so far back that he can't bend it any more or it will certainly break, and then he dumps the rest of La Paloma's flares. The windscreen is tinged with white . . . and the two Gazelles disappear from the threat monitor. "You got them!" I shout, my body shoved back into the plush navigator's seat. "I can't just leave you to Race of Man," complains Hap. "Then leave me with XCOM." That word hangs heavy in the sooty air of La Paloma's passenger compartment. XCOM? But there is no time to ask any questions, for perched before us on the Wall is none other than an Elephant. A thin body flanked by spindly wings mounted on two boxy weapons compartments, the Popo missile boat deals, in fast succession, six missiles from each side. Hap doesn't even swear, his pale face regaining its former hue by the glare light of the panicking threat assessment screen. Dumping altitude, he coaxes an extra hundred kilometers per hour out of La Paloma by diving for the broad upper surface of the Wall--right underneath the Popo ship. The dozen missiles miss us completely, slamming into the Northtown mall. The Elephant, static in malicious glory, arrogantly turns and observes our contorted path down the outside surface of the Wall. La Paloma drops like a rock. The engines kick in bare meters from the parched exterior land . . . I breathe a sigh of relief. "PROPHET LAUNCH DETECTED," states his monitors. Hap guns the shredded engines, tearing off down a rough slum street. An abandoned factory looms up ahead of us. "Father, please do us the blessing of administering last rites," says Hap. "Can't you just dodge them?" I ask. Hap shakes his head, the factory already overhead. "Prophets track." I spot the two red dots. They're coming in at at least three times our speed. Hap puts La Paloma up on one side going through a narrow alley, throwing me against my harness. I watch the monitor very carefully. The twin missiles jink at the right moment. We are going to die. It is then, in this blackest moment in my short and not-so-glorious life, that La Paloma's internal speakers crackle to life. "ILLEGAL FLYER 1013, YOU HAVE BEEN CLEARED FOR LANDING AT COORDINATES 108421991-21349A. REPEAT, YOU HAVE BEEN CLEARED FOR-" "What the fuck?" I yell. "THIRD GARAGE ENTRANCE ON YOUR RIGHT." Hap raises an eyebrow, but the red pips are closing too fast to say no. He cranks the yoke, and we go screaming down an inky black sewer pipe--the elevator shaft to hell. Proximity alarms screaming, the synth-grav circuit in La Paloma kicks in, chrome and cydonium sparking as we hit bottom and immediately speed away down a dimly lit subbasement. The Prophets are still in hot pursuit; somehow, the damned things found this hole. I can almost feel that shaped elerium charge ripping through the back of La Paloma's armor, through the man in white, and then through me. "INTERNAL BLAST DOORS LOWERING. NOW." A tremendous muffled blast shakes me to reality. Hap brakes. The engine dies, and La Paloma crashes to the concrete floor, spinning slowly. "YOU MAY POWER DOWN." The florescent lights of this parking garage go on. "PLEASE STEP OUT OF YOUR VEHICLE." "Who the fuck is this?" I ask. "I don't know," groans Hap. He awkwardly reloads his pistol. His green robe, from his chest on down, is a bloody mess. The fact that Hap is wounded finally dawns on me. The canopy pops open. It does not hiss; there is no pressure difference thanks to the thumb-sized hole in the back. Hap flinches, craning his neck around. He touches the controls; they are dead. "We gotta get you to the Clinic," I whisper. "PLEASE STEP OUT OF YOUR VEHICLE." The canopy cranes back. "Are you doing that, Karl?" inquires Hap. "What?" "Opening the-" Shit. It's them. Two Wolfhounds flank us, roof weapons trained on us; they are the black and blue of the Popo. But I have no doubts as to who the real owners are. "Mister Flannery! Join us!" I thought I recognized that voice. It is my old janitor friend, the blonde, the bastard who took Andy from me and now Grocke . . . and I just killed Andy . . . Oh my God. They are recruiting. They are recruiting, and if I had faced off against them maybe a few days later, maybe it would not have been Carlson and Andy, but instead Grocke and the droid. And I would have killed Casey. "What part 'Step out of your vehicle' don't you understand?" yells the blonde, two of his minions hauling me from my navigator's seat. A third pads me down and immediately pulls my plasma pistol from me. I would have killed Casey as thoughtlessly as I killed Andy! "Shit! It's that damn mayhican!" exclaims the janitor, striding up to me. "Put him down," he orders, "he's as harmless as a pussycat!" I look up into his eyes. "Hi," I mutter. "What a truly strange occurrence," continues the blonde, "that I should meet you again! What's the word . . . kismet? Something like that." He turns to an audience of several dozen berets. "Kraus? You'll vouch for me. I have run into this idiot civilian three times now in the last week. Three times! I mean, look at this guy! He has no clue, and yet he's managed to contact Bureau Ten three god damn times . . ." I blush and stare at my feet. The janitor narrows his eyes, checking my plasma pistol's clip. "Carl--Kaufman, reload this." The commander looks up. "By the way, Karl," he says, and I notice that he's using my damned first name, "did you happen to catch my companion Mister Carlson back at the Church?" I open my mouth slightly. He takes it as ignorance. "You know, medium height, brown hair, brown eyes--the guy who tripped over your butt back at Juventus?" He chuckles for a moment. "Took him three days to heal up from that. Clumsy bastard." I almost want to tell him, just to shut him up and wipe that smile off his face. I wonder how he would take it? "Sir, the bodyguard is dead." Both the blonde and I turn to look at Kaufman. "Bodyguard?" "The driver. Internal hemorrhaging. We're working CPR-" The driver? Hap--no. I bolt away from the two, rushing over to his prone body. Robes peeled back, his white undershirt is soaked; his skin very pale. A beret straddles him, pumping his hands up and down on Hap's chest; congealing blood from the hideous gouge in his lower left side gurgles at every thrust . . . I turn away. "A good man," murmurs Flannery. "Only one I trusted," I reply. Flannery turns away from my shoulder, kneeling down to the dead man. I walk away, headed for La Paloma. It is a mangled, battered mess that has seen better days. "What do you want of me?" he asks. "We don't want anything from you. We want to help you." "How?" "You seek the truth, Mister Flannery. We can show it to you." "I suspect that we seek truthes of differing natures." The janitor is silent. "Please hear us out." "That I can do." La Paloma, sweet chariot, your master, your creator lies dead over there, a cooling slab of meat flung down on a cool slab of concrete. You are battered and abused, your chrome finery smashed and tarnished by exhaust and blood. I wipe the windshield. But at least you have that, yes? It isn't a war until your windshield is shattered. Damn you, Hap. "A good man? That I wouldn't know. But a good pilot--no, a master pilot, a genius of downdrafts and turn radii, a composer of twisted evasions and smooth accelerations alike. They couldn't kill him with half the city's hovercars--no, it took a blow to his achilles' heel--his mortal body--to strike him down. "This man was a pilot, a damn good pilot. Quick and just crazy enough to pull what can't be pulled. A master of his vehicle. One with his vehicle. An evolution of the human ape into a winged creature with only the bounds of space and his own imagination to stay his wanderings. "Kaufman!" "Yessir?" "Take our angel home and mend his wings." 5/21/98
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X-COM is based on characters and design by Mythos Games.