Chris handcuffs the unconscious Alien to a firm rod, ensuring the cuffs are cinched tight before setting to work divesting him of his numerous outfits.


    He grunts as he cuts away the sweater and dress shirt with a Swiss Army knife, the overcoat having been discarded beforehand. Between this fashion overkill, and the other one who was dressed in a bad parody of a hip hop artist, he wondered how the hell they hadn''t been discovered in the first place.


    He makes himself a mental note to commend Alex’s fashion choices more, no matter how lackadaisical they might be. Nothing could be worse than strutting around in a purple hoodie with the word ‘thug’ emblazoned on it in yellow block letters.


    Alien’s torso now completely bare, he winces at the gaping wound caused by the gun he had created, guilt giving way to delight at his ingenuity after a quick beat. He had felled an Alien without trying after all.


    Prodding for a bit to see the wound had missed vital organs, he whips out his phone. Half the screen is shot, with a long crack splitting the working half from the blank.


    He opens his call log, about to dial Alex from memory when the general''s voice booms through the intercom.


    “You''re alive and you can move, please head to the observation room for census.”


    The insensitive prick, Chris thinks, pocketing his phone, glancing back at his unconscious patient one last time, before heading to the control room. It was time to put an end to this nonsense.


    Thankfully they run into each other in the hallway. Glenn, who was about two heads taller than Chris, almost mowing him down with his powerful strides.


    “Ah Jordan,” he says, the hand not gripping the gun steadying a wobbly Chris. “I was just looking for you, to commend you on a job well done.” He waves the bulky thing about comfortably with only one hand. “It''s a perfect prototype. However, we''ll need to mass produce these soon, if we''re going to fight those assholes.”


    Chris inhales and exhales forcefully, lifting a closed fist to his mouth to staunch himself from spewing the first thing that came to his mind. It wouldn''t do to insult the man. Not when he was bigger and younger than Chris was, and had the advantage of coming up on top should fisticuffs ensue.


    “What the hell are you doing?” he settles on instead, a smarter person would realize the enormous self-restraint imbued in those words.


    “Commending you. I thought you''d appreciate the effort.” Alas, Glenn wasn''t smart.


    “Your people are hurt, some of them dead.” He hopes Glenn appreciates directness, “we need to shut this whole thing down now, and get medical attention.”


    The Man waves a hand about airily. “That won''t be necessary. We have a Med Bay in the–”


    “Glenn! We''ve done enough.” Chris can''t quite bite back the outrage in his tone that time. “We messed with things we weren''t supposed to, and now we have pissed off Aliens attacking–”


    “Nobody is leaving!” The General interjects, and Chris takes a step back from the heated look in his eyes. He must notice, because he schools his erratic breathing to something acceptable and continues in a calm but firm voice. “You saw what just happened. Super powered aliens tore through a secret facility like it was nothing. They''re real and they''re here, on Earth, threatening the lives of everything we know and love.”


    “Don''t be stupid.” Chris rolls his eyes. “That crystal is going to explode, taking out every living thing in this solar system. We need to abort this foolishness now.”


    “We are not aborting anything. We proceed as planned.”


    Chris stands up straight, mind made up. “Then I don''t think I''m going to be a part of this any longer.”


    Glenn hoists the gun to rest on his shoulder. Subtlety being a foreign concept to a man who could snap his fingers, and things would get done.


    “You say that like you actually have a choice. We''ve been through a lot, Doctor, certainly you can understand why I can''t just let you walk away.”


    “Are you threatening me?” Chris’ eyebrows fly up in question. He takes a bold step toward the General. ”Do you have any idea the sort of mess you''re about to get yourself into?”


    The General smiles, clearly decoding the hidden message in Chris'' sentence.


    “Why don''t you call her over, so we can find out?” He says, all unperturbed and excited to show off a new toy.


    The gun. Chris thinks, and he laughs. “You think because you have some alien-felling toy now, you can bully me into submission?”


    To his absolute consternation, the General tosses the gun at the wall, smashing three million dollars, and 6 hours of Chris’ coveted time into painful albeit recoverable pieces.


    “On the contrary Dr. Jordan.” Glenn speaks and Chris tears his gaze away from the debris on the floor to look up at the tranquil bastard. “I won’t need the gun at all.”


    <hr>


    16 AD …


    The rhythmic sound of clanging shovels fill the humid afternoon, two men studiously digging up an impressively deep hole that on closer examination appears to be an unmarked grave.


    The lanky man has a shovel in hand, hard at work, while the shorter, rotund one stops to catch his breath and is seated on the last rung of the makeshift rope ladder, languidly emptying a pitcher of water over his sweaty head to the chagrin of his partner.


    “Don''t do the water like that, Castor!” He lilts in a melodic English accent. “It''s a rather long way back to the stream!” He swipes the nearly empty pitcher from Castor.


    “This is taking too long,” Castor throws his head back from his perch on the rope ladder. His head thuds against the soft dirt, and he winces at the impact. “I would have thought we would be finished by now.” He answers in a similar accent.


    The man’s eyes cross at the bead of sweat making its way down his nose. “Whose idea was it to dig up an unmarked grave, buried 12 feet deep?”


    Castor sighs. It was his idea, all things considered. “Aye, but I heard special things about this one, Albus. The villagers whisper all sorts of horrendous curses contained in this little box.”


    Albus halts mid shovel-swing. “And you''re making us dig it up?!”


    “No one knows how or when it got here, some claim it even predates the village itself. So I''m thinking the hush-hush about it is mostly to hide the goodness it possibly entails.” He shivers in anticipation, flailing a hand in encouragement for Albus to continue digging. Albus ponders his words for a moment, before returning to his duties with an agreeable nod.


    “I don''t know Cas,” he huffs, hurling a scoop of dirt out the hole. “It''s the 12 feet thing that''s a little dodgy to me. Who the hell digs a 12 feet hole for a corpse? It''s a bloody corpse! What''s it going to do, crawl out?” He plunges the shovel into the dirt for another scoop, using a foot to drive it in deep.


    “Perhaps it''s to keep people like us out, stop us from vindicating the priceless things they''ve got hidden away down here.” Cas shrugs.


    “Priceless things, yeah.” Albus mutters under his breath. “I take it you''re not going to be joining back in anytime soon?” He cuts an eye at Castor, who is inclined on the dirt wall hands on hips, a self proclaimed supervisor.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    “Really Albus, I feel faint from merely–”


    A loud clang interrupts his whinge, Albus'' shovel striking something solid.


    Castor pushes off his slant and is by Albus in a second. Surprisingly spry for the theatrics he was putting on a few seconds ago. He pads across to where the shovel struck. With a smile too large for his face he shoves his friend, who lets out a relieved chuckle.


    “If what they say about this fella is even half true, we are going to be rich as hell!” Castor rubs greedy palms together.


    ~~~


    Albus and Castor set down the disappointedly wooden coffin with a grunt. Somehow managing to retrieve it, and hoist it up the hole--a task that Albus mostly bore the brunt of.


    Albus is sporting a deep frown, at the disappointment of the coffin being wooden, or the fact that he had been left to do all the heavy lifting, Castor suspects both.


    “I’m just saying, the coffin''s wooden, Cas.” He gripes. He had been doing that unabated since they had discovered it to be a bland wooden box.


    “A diversion.” Castor rallies. “Probably to stave off dumber people in our chosen profession.” He retrieves two crowbars, and tosses one to Albus. They clink their tools together in cheers and set about prying open opposite sides of the coffin.


    The coffin opens with a cloud of dust, one that sends them into a coughing fit, eyes watering.


    The dust finally clears and they both peer in immediately, eyes in wonder–


    “It''s a lady.” Albus says, disappointment kicking up another notch.


    Castor squints into the box. It was indeed a lady. Dark skinned, waist-long black hair and clothed in a flowing white tunic. The corpse looked as fresh as the day it was buried, nothing off kilter save for the bejeweled gold dagger embedded in the right side of her chest.


    Albus groans in frustration.


    “What a downright waste of time!” He peers in between the body and the box, sussing out any hidden compartments, finding none. “There''s no jewels or valuables in here!”


    “Save for the dagger.” Castor says hopefully, his hand reaches to touch the dagger even as he speaks. Albus snatches it away at the last minute.


    “Have you lost your marbles man! That thing was plunged in there for a reason!”


    “Don''t be superstitious Albus, it''s unbecoming.” Castor rolls his eyes. “We spent the better part of the day digging up this shoddy thing, and I''ll be damned if we don''t get something to show for it!”


    “Look at the state of the corpse, you git. Older than the village itself, yet still as fresh as the day it perished. Doesn''t that scream suspicion?” He smacks the backside of Castor''s head, imploring him to think of anything other than jewels for a second.


    Castor stops for a moment to inspect the body. Eyes trained solely on the beautiful knife. “It''s probably some new embalming mixture. Like that weird thing they''ve got going on in Egypt?”


    It was going to be all fine. They weren’t doing anything but liberating a nice new knickknack for some rich geezer to add to their catalog–after a substantial amount of money of course. This was simply benign Archeology, nothing to it. Other than a mild desecration transgression that could be easily corrected after a trip to the Priest.


    Castor nods to himself, plenty convinced by the flimsy excuse he had made up in his head, he reaches for the dagger again.


    “Castor …”


    “Come off it Albus,” he says, hands tweaking to reach for the dagger. “we''re just going to take the nice dagger, and toss the body.” With that he wrenches the dagger off its place, as Albus flies for cover behind a rock.


    Castor freezes in place for a few seconds, only turning to his friend with a sigh of relief when the sky doesn''t collapse on his head, or something equally dastardly. He takes in Albus'' cowardice with a disappointing glare. Sucking air through his teeth when Albus raises up, and sheepishly cleans the dirt off his already filthy outfit.


    “No revenge seeking thunderstorms then?” Castor asks mockingly.


    Albus starts to respond, then freezes suddenly, saucer wide eyes staring at something just beyond Castor. Castor ruffles.


    “That''s not funny, Albus. Like I''d fall for that one.”


    “C-C-Cas–”


    Castor rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “Don''t tell me. Little Miss is up and wants her missing knife back?”


    “Little?” A voice says from behind him, and he stills. Swallowing heavily before turning back to the corpse who is in fact no longer a corpse, but a rather put together female. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly, words unable to spill.


    Alex takes in the disposition of the blanching men in front of her. Face scrunching in irritation when she can’t for the life of her deduce anything of use from the men save the state of their funny looking clothes.


    “Right, I have just one question.” She says in a prim accent more superior to theirs. Her eyes narrow in vengeful fury, and Castor would later swear he saw them alight with fire.


    “What day is it?”


    ~~~


    Albus stares in unbridled shock as Alex paces a furious path, the grass now completely flattened from her repeated footfalls.


    She had not taken hearing the date too well, the sky darkening for a moment, and honest to God lightning flying from her fingers to blast her wooden entrapment to charred splinters. The sky was bright now. Not as humid as it was when they had begun digging, but an acceptable temperature all round.


    Alex pivots at the end of her trail to round back again, waist-long hair billowing about her after each turn.


    “Three hundred and forty.” She mutters on repeat, “I''ve been in a godforsaken box for three hundred and forty years?!” She yells, and the sky crackles loudly in accordance with her temper.


    Albus shifts a little, mouth opening to mollify her a bit. “An impressive feat.” He stammers out. “Although we''re m-mostly confused as to how you might have managed to accomplish that ... actually.”


    “Clearly I''m immortal, you daft prick.” She responds harshly. No thundercrack however, Albus was putting one in the win column.


    Castor snaps his fingers. “Makes sense.” Castor leans in to whisper to him. “Imagine being able to steal through numerous time periods, Albus.” He says, eyes raised to the sky wistfully. “I do wish we was immortal as well.”


    The purple jewel at the grip of the dagger in Castor’s hold glows for a moment, zapping Castor, who drops it with a yelp.


    “Don''t mess up the knife, she might get mad!” Albus scrambles for it on the floor, Castor swiping it back up just as Alex whirls around to begin her trek down the trodden path, her hair whipping at her back. She bats at it futilely, attempting to wrestle it into some sort of manageable state.


    “What even is all this?!” She directs at the fistfuls of her hair in her hands.


    “What, your hair?” Castor asks.


    “Why is it this long and unruly?!”


    “Because, it grew?” Albus supplies confusingly. How exactly did hair grow on someone who was meant to be dead? He shrugs. Considering the fact that Alex was currently gesturing at Castor for the knife instead of slumbering twelve feet under, perhaps the hair had grounds to grow.


    “Give me the knife.” She says testily, when Cas doesn’t register her furious motioning the first time.


    Castor does as instructed immediately, gasping scandalously as Alex lobs off almost the entirety of her hair in one swipe.


    “Madam you can''t do that, you''ll confuse a lot of people …” He says, fingernail lodged firmly in between his teeth.


    Alex turns to him with a scowl, her hands running through her now very short hair sticking out at all sides. Cas must remember the lightning thing.


    “Then again you make it extremely fashionable?” He amends, a plastic smile in place. Albus jabs an elbow in his ribs to silence him.


    “I am going to hunt down every last one of them and exterminate their race.” Alex tosses the knife to the ground in favour of threatening, Albus lunges for it once again. “I''ll make it slow, I''ll make it memorable and painful, I think I might just manage to make it last 340 bloody years!” They duck as she screams, their discarded shovels and crowbars exploding into tiny bits.


    Albus raises a hand in the air, pupil style, Alex slowly turning to look at him. Yes, he’s scared shitless at the moment, but he’d like some clarification.


    “What?” Alex asks.


    Albus peers around, making sure there’s nothing else for her to explode in uncontrolled but definitely warranted fury. “Just a bit of mild curiosity really, but 340 years later is a bit lax to be organizing revenge for your captors now isn''t it?” He wrings his hands together.


    At his question, Alex offers a predatory smile, baring sharp canines and the promise of long suffering. She steps to him, arm snaking around him to settle on his shoulder like a coiled viper.


    Albus shudders at the contact, rearing back as far as he can, when he takes in the smile, and the steady stream of blood that has started trickling down her nose, soiling the tunic. A depraved look all round.


    “They''re warlocks, my good friend.” She says, before her gaze pivots to the unseeing distance. “You see warlocks, they have all the time in the world.”


    <hr>


    Nelzux lands roughly as a writhing Nod shoves him away, putting an irate distance between the both of them. It''s a miracle he was able to stay in flight with all the uncomfortable squirming, not to mention the hoarse shouting directly into his ear.


    Nelzux groans as Nod starts back in the direction they came from. “Where are you going?”


    “Back, to save Kyp.” Nod responds over his shoulder.


    “Don''t be daft, he is probably dead.” It pained him to say it, but there was no use skirting around the truth.


    Nod whips back to him aggressively, obviously rattled by what he knows is probable. “Then we take his body, give him a proper Nekkarian funeral.”


    “We can''t go back there, Nod.” He says softly. “That gun was powered with the Crystal, the moment we step foot there, we die.”


    “How can you just sit there and be so cold? Kyp was one of us, we grew up together, served Nekkar together!” Nod shoves him again, and the only reason Nelzux doesn’t shove back, is because he understands the emotions coursing through his friend.


    “You think I do not know that?” He bites, fighting the cracks that threaten to seep out along with his words. “If we go back there, our emotions not in check, we will not be helping anyone. Not Nekkar, not our fallen comrades, and certainly not Kyp.”


    Nod huffs, finger pointing to the earth beneath them. “We took an oath Nelzux. For us and for our realm.” He says, and the crack Nelzux had warded off in his own voice, unveils itself in Nod’s words.


    “You were right the first time, Nod. Humans are not to be reasoned with. His eyes darken, fists clenching with the promise of vengeance. “Fear not, comrade, for we are but one trial away from our revenge. Soon Earth, Velkor and all of Naetune will pay for their transgressions against us.”