1. The Hospital

The Pacific night draped itself in a cloak of mystery as Private Jack “Havoc” Donovan prowled the shadowy recesses of the small island where he was stationed. The Island was home to a classified nuclear missile launch facility where the personnel had been handpicked based on an unknown criteria. It was 1957, and the air was thick with the enigma of the Cold War. The potential of espionage loomed large, but Havoc’s mind wasn’t fixated on the Russkis; even if the war turned hot, it was something else that had his gut twisted.

Havoc, a low-ranking officer within a specialized branch of the US Army, had a nose for trouble. His nose was also crooked from a life of drunken brawling, resembling a retired prize-fighter; he wandered around the island, taking respite from his post, where whispered conversations and cryptic orders hinted at a deeper layer beneath routine military operations.

Manning a post wasn’t Havoc’s cup of whiskey; he was AWOL and wandered for what seemed like hours around the perimeter of an abandoned US air force base located on the other side of the island, a relic untouched since the war against the Japanese. Memories flooded in, but Havoc was numb, not from the whisky but from the callous that veiled his mind—it was like watching a movie.

Cigarettes dwindling, he decided to explore the old facility for more or perhaps a misplaced bottle of bourbon. Breaking in wasn’t a walk in the park, but after lowering himself down a series of rickety old rafters next to what looked like the old base hospital, he found himself within sight of the main entry.

The door was locked but nothing the hardened heel of Havoc’s right boot couldn’t handle. He entered and strolled down the corridor into the facility’s dim bowels with the confidence of someone who belonged.

A door marked “high-level radiation, do not enter!” caught Havoc’s eye. He reckoned it would make a perfect spot to light up his last Lucky Strike. “Back to chew’n and spittn’ after this one,” he mumbled. Surprisingly, the door was ajar, but the lock engaged. “Someone was either in a hurry or hammered when they left here,” Havoc thought.

Recent human activity was evident with the lights still on and a camo shirt curled on the floor. Lighting a cigarette, Havoc noticed hinges on either side of a table, reminding him of the flip-seat on a piano stool. He wasted no time in lifting the tabletop while muttering, “This might be where the Air Force Corporals kept their whiskey—’high-level radiation,’ my ass.”

Under the table, he was disappointed to find not cigarettes or whisky, but a mushroom-shaped red button. Curiosity got the better of him and he thumped it – hard. Suddenly, a screeching noise erupted, resembling the sound of a train derailing. Seconds seemed like minutes, and then abruptly, it ceased. “Fuck!” Havoc cursed, now in complete darkness. He reached into his rucksack to pull out a flashlight, but he’d left it behind, “shit!” He then pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket, but it slipped from his grasp, “Dammit, sons of whores,” he fumed. Havoc figured the button he had pushed was an old safety feature designed to cut the power in case of emergencies.

He slid his hands along the wall searching for the exit, only to find a large opening in the wall and immediately felt disoriented, “this wasn’t here before,” he whispered aloud, coldness enveloped his body as he waved his arms into the large wall cavity which seemed like an endless abyss. Battling panic, Havoc took a steadying breath, and then – “thump”!

Time passed, and Havoc lay on his back in utter darkness, trying to piece together the fragments of his last memory. “Was this the radiation?” he wondered, lying motionless and unwilling to tempt fate. Little did he know, something far more insidious lurked in the shadows—an enigma that went beyond the Cold War’s twisted dance.

 

2. The Mess

The mess hall buzzed with the clatter of trays and the laughter of personnel seeking refuge from the base’s stuffy protocols. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting a lively glow over the motley crew gathered around a large dining table. Private Joe “Razor” Reynolds, with a grin as wide as the Pacific, held court with a wild gleam in his eyes.

“Listen up, folks! I’ve got the scoop on what’s really happening out there in the cosmos,” Razor declared, puffing on a cigar like he was spruiking a boardwalk show.

Sally “Vixen” Vance rolled her eyes, sipping coffee. “Oh, this should be good. Razor, did you finally spot Elvis piloting a UFO?”

Razor wagged a finger, “Nah, Vixen, but close! Rumour has it those flying saucers are just intergalactic newspaper delivery boys. Aliens got a thing for Earth gossip.”

“Slick” Stevens chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, my cousin swears he saw a UFO doing the cha-cha in the sky. Must be some extraterrestrial dance party.”

Everyone at the table laughed as Vixen mused, “Speaking of strange creatures, where’s Havoc?”

“Damned if I know, probably had bourbon for supper followed by a nice nap on the floor,” Slick quipped.

“We should call him “wreaking Havoc’”, posed Vixen, smiling while pinching her nose.

“Why?” asked Razor.

“Because he stinks like whisky, you dummy!” answered Vixen as the table once again burst into laughter.

The mess banter paused as a loud “whoosh” sound rang through the hall. It was the main mess door, swinging open violently, and in walked the base head honcho, Commander Walsh, flanked by Major

Mitchell and two stone-faced officers that hadn’t been seen on base before. The lively buzz of the room hushed into an uneasy silence as the higher-ups, who usually dined separately, marched in.

The neon lights illuminated the brass insignias on their uniforms, casting an authoritative glow. The privates exchanged glances, the atmosphere shifting from light-hearted banter to an air of discomfort.

The new arrivals took seats at a table, uncomfortably close to the officers already seated. Razor, his grin faltering for a moment, shot a puzzled look at Vixen and Slick. They all shifted in their seats, feeling the eyes of the military higher-ups boring into them.

Commander Walsh, a stern figure with a jawline that could cut glass, surveyed the scene. “Looks like a lively party in here,” he remarked dryly, looking directly at Vixen for a response as she gazed silently into her bowl of soup.

Vixen was the Commander’s secretary; he had requested her to follow him to the base from his previous post after she had worked for him as a temporary replacement. Vixen didn’t care for the Commander; she’d grown up poor and found his humourless and emotion-free disposition uncomfortable. She was sure Walsh secretly disliked that she hung out with the Privates on base; she knew he considered them less than sewer rats, useful sewer rats, but sewer rats all the same.

Attempting to block out any awkwardness, the Privates eased back into their animated chatter. Major Mitchell raised an eyebrow, his gaze now fixed on Razor. “Talking about UFOs, are we?” Mitchell was a thoughtful man, with a battle scar of unknown origin running from his left brow down to the bottom of his left cheek.

Razor, caught off guard, stammered, “Uh, sir, just a bit of harmless banter. You know how it is, trying to lighten the mood.”

A Lieutenant on the table next to them leaned in and in a mocking tone asked, “You don’t believe in little green men, do you, soldier?”

Razor chuckled nervously, “Of course not! Just joking around. No military involvement with extraterrestrials here, obviously.”

The privates exchanged knowing glances, their stern expressions softening into faint smirks. Walsh, despite the seriousness of his rank, couldn’t help but crack a wry smile.

“Carry on, Privates,” he ordered with a dismissive wave. “But remember, we’re all here to serve our country, not to chase after little alien critters. Now, enjoy your meal.”

With that, the officers delved into their meals, leaving the privates to resume their chatter. The mess hall returned to its lively atmosphere, but beneath the surface, a tension lingered—a reminder that, even in the face of laughter and camaraderie, the secrets of the base were never far from scrutiny.

 

3. Sirens

Havoc’s eyes snapped open; he was greeted by the harsh glow of the base medical facility’s lights. His head pulsed with an unruly rhythm; each beat a reminder of the darkness that had enveloped him the night before. Attempting to rise, he was met with resistance—a firm hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, soldier. You need some rest,” a sweet voice, courtesy of a middle-aged nurse, cooed in his ear.

As memories began to resurface, Havoc squinted at the nurse. “The lights went out, and now I’m here. What the hell happened?”

The nurse adjusted the bandage on Havoc’s forehead and replied, “Lights? You were found face down on the beach last night. Lucky you didn’t get dragged away by the tide, and for the record, you smell like a corn distillery, been hitting the bottle? And how’d you get that mark on your forehead? Never seen anything like it?” The nurse quizzed.

Havoc pulled the bandage to one side and felt his forehead; it was sore to the touch with little marks like Braille inside a rectangle the size of a box of matches.

Unease crept over Havoc; nothing made sense, and he felt trapped. “I need to get out of here,” he proclaimed, rolling himself onto the floor, then pulling himself upright and staggering towards the exit door. The nurse protested for him to stay put but it was in vain.

Outside, the base yard immediately stretched before him, officers standing at attention while Commander Walsh unleashed a verbal storm on them. Havoc strained to hear the specifics of the reprimand, and with his specialist military training kicking in, he decided to blend into the shadows, diving into a nearby bush to make sense of the unfolding chaos.

Before he could decipher the commander’s words, a sudden sharp pressure on his back forced Havoc to raise his arms in surrender. He knew he was sprung and retorted, “Got a cigarette?” trying his luck. “Stand up,” came the voice behind him in an exasperated tone. It was Major Mitchell. “Why are you doing this?” Havoc asked.

“Can’t take any chances now, can we? You’re a loose cannon, Havoc,” Mitchell answered, as if he was talking to an unruly son.

As they marched towards the main quarters, Havoc couldn’t shake the feeling of being a pawn in some larger game. Mitchell tossed Havoc a cigarette. “I suppose you want a light too?” Asked Mitchell snidely. “Nah, on second thoughts keep your hands where I can see them” and he gestured to one of the unknown privates to light the smoke. Havoc was even more confused than before. “Ok, let’s go.” Mitchell grumbled as the officers escorted him away.

In Commander Walsh’s office, the atmosphere was charged with tension. “Donovan, you know why you’re here. Tell me exactly what happened last night,” the Commander demanded.

Havoc, knowing he was innocent of any wrongdoing, responded, “Took a wrong turn, sir. Got lost in the labyrinth of the old base, hit my head, sir.”

“What?!” The Commander’s eyes narrowed in anger. Then, unexpectedly, Commander Walsh’s attention shifted. Vixen appeared at the doorway, frantically waving. “It’s the President, sir. He’s on the radio in the comms bunker, wants to talk to you.”

Commander Walsh darted up, straightened his jacket, and marched out. “We’ll continue this later,

Donovan. Go join your fellow soldiers; there’s work to be done. But go AWOL like that again, and you won’t need to worry about some bang on the head anymore, understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Havoc belted out while standing to attention. “Vance, see the Private out,” Walsh ordered, as he began to strut down the corridor. “Yes, Sir,” Vixen responded. She shook her head at Havoc. “What the hell is going on? Where were you last night, Jack? We thought the Aliens had got you,” Vixen was only half-joking.

“Well, er,” Havoc hesitated, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue when suddenly, the sound of sirens shattered the air. “Code blue” came a distant shout. “Jesus! Are we launching?” Vixen shrieked, turning and sprinting down the corridor. Havoc leapt to his feet, a surge of excitement and patriotism coursing through him. Instincts forged in the fiery crucible of combat; a fine soldier in his prime, those instincts refused to be extinguished. Yet, just before reaching the door, he slammed on the brakes.

“Cigarettes. Not doing this without cigarettes,” Havoc declared. Pivoting, he headed straight for the

Commander’s desk. The desk had three drawers—Havoc tore into them with fervour. He found standard issue documents, files, newspapers, even a smut magazine, but no sign of cigarettes. The futility of it all mocked Havoc’s urgent quest.

As he turned to leave, something snagged his attention—a peculiar statue of St. Michael graced the Commander’s desk. Walsh didn’t strike Havoc as the religious type, yet there the patron saint of the military stood. A nagging feeling urged him to investigate further.

Havoc palmed the statue by its head and pushed. Expecting a hefty resistance, he was surprised as the statue bounced off the desk like a tennis ball. Quick reflexes saved it from hitting the floor as he caught it mid-air.

“Oh, shit that was close!” Havoc exhaled, placing the statue back exactly where it sat previously. As he removed his clasp from the statue, he heard a subtle “dink” echoing from within. To his excitement, inside the statue, he discovered a pack of Pall Mall’s. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Havoc smirked, “I’m luckier than a lucky strike.”

The Commander’s motives for hiding the pack of cigarettes eluded Havoc as he slipped the pack into his pocket and left the office, clueless about the object he now carried.

 

4. The Drill

Havoc looked for Slick and Razor without luck as he spotted Vixen from a distance; she waved but quickly put her head back down as she scurried away following the Commander.

The base bustled with activity as the loudspeakers crackled to life. “All personnel, report to the main yard immediately, this is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.” Havoc’s mind a whirlwind of confusion and suspicion but he wasted no time heading towards the main yard. The facility personnel, still reeling from the Commander’s berating, were now assembled in rows under the glaring pacific sun.

Commander Walsh, flanked by Major Mitchell, addressed the assembly. An obviously rehearsed diatribe about an international crisis and the need to ready the launch facility for nuclear engagement followed, lacking any real details. Havoc’s gut twisted in unease; something about the situation felt off.

The memories of the mysterious room he had encountered were ever present in his mind’s eyes. Unsettled, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the true enigma lay not in the threat from outside but within the shadows of the classified facility itself.

Havoc figured he had time for the calming drag of a cigarette, and he reached into his pocket to grab one of the Pall Mall’s that he had swiped from the Commander’s office. He felt around inside the pack for a moment but, to his dismay, there were no cigarettes; instead, there was something square and metallic. He pulled the object out, thinking it must be a lighter of some sort, but it was not like any cigarette lighter he had seen before. “What is this?” he murmured out loud, puzzled. The object was as black as midnight, and small indents adorned its faces, like some coded language. “Havoc, what are you gawking at? Am I boring you?” barked Mitchell. “No, Sir, it’s nothing, Sir,” replied Havoc as he stowed the object back in his pocket.

The gravity of the situation had sunk in. They were to prepare to launch missiles armed with nuclear warheads, a sense of foreboding hanging over the base.

Inside the launch facility, Havoc was met with a surreal scene—officers huddled around control panels, technicians running diagnostics, and an air of urgency that bordered on panic. Havoc’s eyes darted around, searching for any clues that could shed light on the true nature of the crisis.

Major Mitchell stood tall, surveying the scene, “you’re all part of this now. We’ve got orders, and they come from the highest echelons. National security is at stake,” his words sounding like a coach giving a pre-game pep talk.

As the soldiers were assigned various tasks, Havoc couldn’t shake the feeling that they were mere pawns in a game of power and secrecy. He wanted to vanish and discreetly slipped away, using the chaos as cover.

And just like that, the sirens wound down, and Commander Walsh’s voice echoed through the loudspeakers. “Stand down, soldiers, I repeat, stand down. Crisis averted, report to your post immediately.”

Havoc, full of anxious energy, wasted no time and sprinted across the base yard away from the launch area. “Hey, hey, HEY! Havoc, over here!” It was Slick, standing on the hood of an MB Jeep, waving his arms. Havoc stopped in his tracks as Slick drove over to meet him. “What the hell are you up to, Slick?” quizzed Havoc “I’m great, and you? Son of a bitch,” Razor responded sarcastically.” “By the way, where were you last night? You been foolin’ around with one of those sexy lady aliens?” asked Slick, almost hoping it was true. “I’m okay; maybe I drank a little too much, passed out on the beach is all.” Answered Havoc dismissively, not knowing where to start. “Anyway, what in God’s name was that all about just now? Thought we were about to pull the trigger and start worldwide Armageddon.” Stated Havoc with the type of detached manner that comes after years of active combat. Slick suddenly turned serious as he pulled Havoc down, forcing him to sit in the front passenger seat of the Jeep. “Let’s get out of here” he whispered. The base personnel hurried around them; Havoc and Slick may as well have been invisible as they drove away.

 

5. Return to the Hospital

Havoc’s senses were on high alert as they drove to the same stretch of beach where Havoc had been found passed out the night before. The air crackled with tension, and the calmness of the ocean offered a strange contrast to the unfolding events on the base.

As the Jeep rattled to a stop, Slick’s worried eyes met Havoc’s. “Razor’s gone, man. Disappeared into thin air. The Commander’s raising hell because of him. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s bad.”

Havoc scowled, his suspicions intensifying. “Missing?” Havoc furrowed his brow, “Where the hell could he be? I tried to find him, but he’s a ghost”. Slick’s head-scratching offered no solace. He continued, “I’ve got a plan. There’s a rescue boat by the old dock. We find Razor, then we get the hell out. I won’t leave him behind; he’s like a brother to me.”

Slick dropped another bombshell. “The night you went AWOL, Razor went searching for you; he was worried.” “There’s no need to be worried about me!” Havoc exclaimed proudly. But when Slick mentioned the red mark on Razor’s forehead, Havoc’s bravado crumbled like a sandcastle in a storm.

“I laid eyes on him last night in the barracks, just before lights out. Something was off, man. He had this distant look, like his mind had taken a thousand-mile detour. Didn’t spill where he’d been, but a square red mark on his forehead was screaming trouble. Asked him about it but got nothing. Come morning, poof, he wasn’t there, vanished like smoke in the wind!” Slick’s revelation sent a chill crawling down Havoc’s spine, the puzzle pieces snapping together one by one.

“A mark, you say. No shit! Soldier, I now think I know where he’s gone.” Havoc’s mind raced back to the facility he had stumbled upon the previous night.

“Let’s go,” he declared, and they stealthily made their way to the facility on foot, shadows cloaking their movements as they were careful not to be seen.

The dimly lit corridor welcomed them back, and Havoc led with the confidence of someone who had danced with danger many times before. “Razor, are you there?” Slick’s desperate shout echoed in the cold corridor. Havoc signalled to keep silent, untrusting of their surroundings.

They navigated the dimly lit corridor, passing the door marked “high-level radiation” that Havoc had dared to enter the previous night. With a hushed gesture, Havoc urged Slick forward, more closed doors looming ahead like an abandoned floor of a hotel. The rickety facades of these doors concealing recent additions, complete with shiny new, heavy hinges and locks fresh as a daisy.

Havoc signalled to Slick to shadow him. There was no way they could bust through those doors undetected, so they backtracked to the room from the night before, the door yielded, swinging open to a room bathed in eerie light, beckoning them like a siren’s call. “Ready your flashlight, soldier, and plug those ears tight,” Havoc commanded in a low growl. He hefted the tabletop open and slammed the mushroom-shaped button with a closed fist. As expected, darkness engulfed them instantly, accompanied by the spine-chilling shriek of metal meeting metal. The clandestine dance into the unknown had begun.

As the nightmarish screech faded, Havoc and Slick, armed with flashlights, combed the room like detectives on the hunt for evidence. The once-solid wall now revealed a vast opening, a secret doorway beckoning them into the enigmatic abyss. Havoc exchanged a nod with Slick, and without uttering a word, they ventured forth, heading into the blackness.

Suddenly, a swift “vroooosh” cut through the silence as a crazed figure hurtled towards Havoc. A shirtless man emerged, camo pants clinging to sinewy legs, and an unsettling void in his white eyes like a crazed zombie. The attacker, armed with army-issue boots and a mysterious black headband, seized Slick by the neck with lightning speed, hands locked tight as Slick gasped for air. Reacting swiftly, Havoc’s flashlight became a makeshift weapon, a flurry of strikes creating an opening for Slick to escape.

The assailant crumpled to the floor. “Is he dead?” asked Slick. Havoc, catching his breath, could only respond with uncertainty, “damned if I care.” The room, now a battleground, became a stage for revelation. Havoc examined the fallen foe and discovered the familiar black metallic object strapped to his forehead, mirroring the one found in Walsh’s office.

Havoc reached over and removed the object, startled; he dropped it to the floor as it emitted a sudden bright fluorescent flash. The light dimmed, leaving only a residue of silver dust in its wake. Havoc and Slick, sharing a wordless understanding, acknowledged they’d reached a point of no return. With determination etched on their faces, they steeled themselves to move forward, guided by the urgency to unravel the mysteries beyond the hidden doorway.

The fallen assailant began to groan, his voice choked up and barely audible. “ehhrr, where am I?” Slick, jolted by the unexpected revival, raised his pistol. “Shit, he’s alive!” he exclaimed. Observing the return of normalcy to the assailant’s eyes, Slick voiced his puzzlement. Havoc, sensing a deeper conspiracy at play, motioned to Slick to lower his weapon.

“Who are you?” Havoc demanded. the moaning attacker introduced himself as Officer Kozlowski, alias “Dodger.” His disoriented state revealed no memories about his time on base. The mention of Razor also yielded no answers, leaving Havoc to conclude, “He’s no use to us Slick.” Havoc shifted his attention back to Dodger, “Got a smoke, soldier?” Dodger, slightly puzzled, retorted, “You mean a cigarette?” as Havoc nodded. He dug into the pocket of his camo pants, and as if by divine intervention, pulled out a fractured Lucky Strike. “One for me, one for you,” quipped Havoc, seizing one half of the cigarette from Dodger’s feeble grip and placing it gently into his shirt pocket. Havoc and Slick ventured into the once concealed doorway, their journey into the unknown unfurling with each step, revealing more questions than answers in this convoluted mystery.

 

Chapter 6. Bricks

The corridor, a murky abyss, reeked of neglect, its floor strewn with debris beneath a cemented arched ceiling that mimicked the desolation of a forsaken subway tunnel.

“Do you hear that?” Slick’s inquiry sliced through the darkness. Havoc, relentless in his advance, brushed it off. “I think we’re being followed; I can hear footsteps,” Slick persisted. But Havoc, focused on his mission, paid no heed. “Havoc. Havoc, are you there?” A faint yet distinct voice echoed; someone was calling for Havoc. “Ok, I heard that, let’s head back,” Havoc grumbled, irritated.

Retracing their steps to the doorway, they found Vixen hunched over Dodger. “There you are, Havoc, couldn’t you hear me?” Vixen exclaimed. “This man needs help, urgent medical attention; he’s malnourished and weak.” Havoc waved it off. “He’s fine. Ration packs back at base will fix him up.

Vixen, why are you here?” Vixen, with a determined look, laid it out, “I followed you. Saw you and Slick bolt before. Figured you were pulling a Razor and making a break for it!”

Slick, almost forgetting that Razor was missing, inquired, “Razor’s been located?” Vixen confirmed,

“Yeah, he’s been found alright. I heard it crackling on Walsh’s radio, picked up by a local Navy Patrol, tried to make off in a safety boat.” Slick was furious, “that slimy, two faced…” before he could finish, Vixen continued, “Walsh is MIA now too; none of the brass have laid eyes on him since the launch hit was called off.”

“Here, catch,” Havoc tossed a pistol to Vixen. “We’ve treading in deep waters and there’s no turning back now. Can’t and won’t leave you stranded here; you’re sticking with us. Dodger can chill here for now; we’ll fetch him later.”

Venturing forward through the tunnel, they reached a sudden, dramatic opening—a cavernous space the size of a hanger, mostly in ruins. “Bombed by the Japs during the war; an old navy bunker,” Havoc explained. “Lord have mercy,” Slick murmured.

Vixen noticed a glow in the distance. As they approached, the eerie light revealed a colossal machine pulsating with an otherworldly hum. The machine, surrounded by monitors displaying intricate schematics and encrypted codes, hinted at the mysterious purpose of the technology. “Aliens are here,” Slick exclaimed. “Funny, I don’t see any,” retorted Havoc, cutting down the fantastical notion.

“There’s your man,” Havoc almost chuckled in disbelief, pointing to Commander Walsh connected to the colossal machine. Wires and circuits linked him to the pulsating contraption, with a chromecoloured strap across his eyes and his hair frizzled by the power source, as if the commander were undergoing a cosmic recharge. “What in the world are they doing to the commander?” whispered Vixen. No one had an answer.

As they quietly stared at the otherworldly scene, Havoc felt a sudden heat coming from his shirt pocket. It was the metallic object from Walsh’s office; he pulled it out, and it glowed and pulsed in sync with the machine’s light display. “Drop!” Slick shouted, snapping Havoc out of his trance. “He’s got a gun!” And there was Mitchell, standing on a pile of debris 50 feet away, the same device strapped to his head just as Dodger had, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. A flurry of shots rang out, forcing the trio to take cover behind an old pile of shattered bricks.

“You’re not leaving here alive,” Walsh commanded to the trio. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he shouted at Havoc directly. Havoc and Slick retaliated with a fire of their own.

In a sudden twist, a bombardment of bricks hurtled towards the trio, just missing overhead. “Jesus, how is Walsh doing this!” Havoc shouted. The bricks defied gravity, turning corners, and rising unaided from the rubble before hurtling at breakneck speed towards them. “Is he out of ammo?” Slick pondered. Before he could finish his thought, a broken brick shot forward out of nowhere and struck him on the temple, rendering him unconscious with blood pooling beside him. Vixen, recognizing the source of the onslaught, exclaimed, “He’s using that damn thing strapped to his head to levitate the bricks and throw them at us.” Another onslaught ensued, narrowly missing Vixen as she turned Slick on his side. Bricks now converged from all directions, rising from the rubble like an army of relentless foot soldiers.

Mitchell’s telekinetic onslaught continued to unleash a relentless battery of bricks on the trio, flinging towards them at a relentless pace. “We’re trapped here. He’s not going to run out of bricks anytime soon,” reasoned havoc, his voice edged with desperation.

“Urrghh,” Slick groaned, starting to come to. His eyes flickered at first, then suddenly snapped open, fully awake. He sat up and knew he had been hit, the pain searing through him. “Slick, stay down,” shouted Havoc as he continued to dodge the incoming onslaught. “I’m in this too Havoc, we need a plan.” Said Slick while gritting his teeth; he was determined not to let the agony of his injury show.

Amidst the chaos, Havoc had an epiphany. “Stay here and don’t follow me,” Havoc instructed Slick and Vixen. He pulled the metallic object out of his pocket and without hesitation slid it under the padded front of his helmet, pressing it firmly against his forehead.

In an instant, Havoc’s eyes rolled back inside his head, and with a surge of newfound determination, he launched himself toward the Major. It was a fearless dive into the heart of the supernatural storm, where the forces of the unknown clashed with a courage that transcended the boundaries of ordinary men.

As Havoc neared Mitchell, he transformed into an otherworldly force. His actions defied the laws of nature, dancing with an eerie grace that mirrored the invisible power controlling the levitating bricks. It was as if he had tapped into the very essence of the mysterious force that orchestrated the onslaught. Mitchell, taken aback by the unexpected twist, hesitated in his telekinetic assault, momentarily thrown off by the spectacle unfolding before him.

In a surreal dance between two forces, Havoc and Mitchell were now face to face, neither one backing down. Mitchell’s malevolent gaze wavered, confusion replacing the arrogance that had dominated his eyes moments ago. The levitating bricks, once a deadly barrage, now hung suspended in the air, frozen in a strange stasis.

A silent communication unfolded between the two adversaries, transcending the need for spoken words. With a sudden surge of energy, Havoc unleashed an invisible sonic wave that rocked the cavernous bunker, flinging Mitchell backward, falling from his perch high on a pile of debris.

The levitating bricks, once a threat, now descended harmlessly to the ground. The cavernous bunker fell silent, the only sound echoing being the distant hum of the alien-like machine.

Mitchell lay sprawled on his back, a silent puppet in the grip of a trance controlled by the stillpossessed Havoc. “Wait here!” Slick shouted to Vixen as he fearlessly sprinted toward the heart of the supernatural battlefield. Closing in on Havoc, he seized the moment, yanking off the helmet that shackled his comrade. The mind-controlling metal object clattered to the floor, severed from its unholy link.

A drone-like voice pierced the air from the shadows near the pulsating machine, disrupting the silence. It was Walsh, now liberated from the machine’s otherworldly clutches. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he pursed with an unsettling authority.

Mitchell’s trance persisted, an unholy grip on his consciousness that defied the return to reality. Havoc, now reclaimed by his own mind, retrieved the metallic device from the ground, its pulsating energy concealed once more within the confines of his pocket. “That’s mine, it belongs to me, and you stole it,” warned Commander Walsh, his tone carrying the weight of cosmic authority.

“You don’t know what you are doing, what you’ve stumbled into,” Walsh continued in a foreboding tone. Vixen, undeterred and draped in a tone of cathartic disrespect, demanded answers. “Well, spill the beans then, Sir. What the hell is this all about?”

“Just a little experiment courtesy of your Uncle Sam,” Walsh quipped with a chilling nonchalance. Havoc, disbelief etched on his face, challenged the notion. “The government did this? I don’t believe it.”

“The CIA funds this project, but they give us a long leash, so to speak,” Walsh explained, his cold smirk a reflection of the shadows concealed in the corridors of power. Slick, ever the sceptic, ventured, “Is it Aliens?”

“Of course, it’s all the little green men with space helmets and flying saucers,” Walsh retorted sarcastically. “You’re closer to the truth than you might realize,” he continued, “what we are developing here will revolutionize warfare and government control forever, but it will come at a price.”

“What’s the price?” Havoc probed, the weight of impending revelation hanging in the air. Walsh’s ominous reply echoed through the cavernous bunker: “Souls.”

“I need a cigarette,” Havoc muttered, Walsh nodding in approval. Retrieving Dodger’s half cigarette from his pocket, Havoc brought it to his lips, and to his astonishment, it spontaneously ignited. Glancing at Walsh, Havoc inquired, “You did that?” Walsh looked back at Havoc and flashed a sinister grin.

“Yo, Slick,” added Havoc, “Souls, he says.”

“Yes, souls are what we require,” reiterated Walsh, “human souls.” The words hung in the air, carrying an unsettling gravity that hinted at the unfathomable cost of their descent into the abyss of this otherworldly government experiment.