Steve Hawke came to lying on a concrete slab, in a tiny, cramped cell.  His head was resting on a pillow that appeared to be stuffed with gravel.  There were stains of old blood on the gray cement floor and on the grate set immovably in it, and an overpowering smell that nearly sent him back to the arena of unconsciousness for another round.  He knew what it was.  It was the stench of death.

There was a miniscule window in the far wall, through which grubby light filtered.  Steve got up with difficulty.  He wasn't wounded anywhere, but his whole body felt like one continuous bruise.  His muscles ached.  Limping over to the window, he could dimly see an identical window across a hall.  The blackened door adjoining the window had the faded number 004 stenciled on it with military precision.  He could also make out a desk at the end of the hall, behind which a logo printed on a banner was crudely hung from the ceiling.  He knew that logo.  It was a hand enveloping a globe.

Majestic 12.

Suddenly, he felt weak and sick.  He had no idea what they would do to him, but it was undoubtedly going to be torture and eventual death.  He'd heard tell that nobody had ever escaped from an MJ12 holding facility.  Stumbling back to his slab, he tried to rationalize his situation.  When he'd given the oath to fight Majestic 12, he had been aware that this kind of thing could happen, but never to him.  No, no, this was something that happened to other people.

But this time, this was no gossip or scuttlebutt among the ranks.  This was here and now.  This was real.

*            *            *

Joseph Manderley, managing director of UNATCO, wrung his hands.  "Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm at the Manhattan holding facility.  I'm interrogating the prisoners."  There was a pause from the man in the hologram projector.  "How is the newest arrival?"

"He's fine.  I think he'll do well."

"I'll be the judge of that," said the black-coated man.  There were faint blue lines outlining eldritch shapes in his head - nanoaugmentation, Manderley thought.  But why would the director of FEMA have nanoaugs?

"I'll keep you informed, Mr. Simons."

"Do that.  I'll be in touch."  The figure reached down and terminated the connection.  Manderley stared at nothing, shaking his head.  He was in too deep.  This wasn't why he'd joined UNATCO, all those years ago.  He wanted to fight terrorism, not sit behind a desk and do paperwork.  Now he wasn't even sure who was actually committing the crimes - the NSF or people like Walton Simons.

*            *            *

John flattened himself against the wall and took a deep breath.  It was him!  The brute who had taken Steve away was in the break room!  John pulled himself together.  Act normally, he thought.  He was about to walk calmly away when the man suddenly loomed up in his vision.  He seemed to glare at Murphy, his lip pulled back in a snarl.  Or perhaps that was just the light...

"Welcome to your new position.  Do not get in my or Anna Navarre's way or you will regret it," he said abruptly in his German accent.  The curious grating was still present in his voice.

Murphy nodded mutely.

"Good.  I am sure we will have a good working relationship.  Now, I have business to attend to."  He strode off, the pneumatics in his legs pumping and giving his step more power than one would expect.  Murphy breathed out, and stepped into the break room, looking for some black coffee - or, for preference, a whisky sour.  He found nothing but a babbling TV and a tiny kitchenette.  Disheartened and even more in need of a stiff drink, he turned and watched his feet guide him once again to the main hall.  Just as they were carrying him to the stairs going down, he bumped into a man all in black.  The man's opaque sunglasses reflected the glare of the hall lights.

"I'm sorry," he said, and continued to Manderley's office.  Murphy stared after him.  Must be one of those nanoaugmented agents, he thought.  They were frighteningly adept at what they did, and with no visible machinery, except for light blue lines on the head.  He could feel the nervousness rising.  Even though the man's sunglasses gave no clue as to what was underneath, he had felt like the pair of eyes was poring over every particle of his being, examining his very soul.

Murphy shivered, and turned once again to the stairs.