Spencer stood at the door and knocked. A single, brusque, rough knock that made it shudder in its frame. Clearly he was in no mood for idleness, as indicated by the way he kept glancing over his shoulder and murmuring a countdown beneath his breath. That, and he was pretty sure he smelled a dead animal under the rickety stairs he just came down.

[I] “Randall, open up!” [/i]

Nothing. Not a peep from the other side. 

He tapped his foot and contemplated breaking in. That contemplation lasted about a tenth of a second, then he shouldered his way through. The door splintered like balsa and he fell through to the other side in a confetti of glue and dust. He coughed, picked himself up off the floor, and suddenly it dawned on him what smelled. In here, it was worse. Way worse. Slumped on the couch was Randall, a needle clutched in his fist and a trail of black ooze gushing from his pupil where he had tried—and failed—to properly inject himself with the narcotic. It was probably a morbid side-effect of the seismic activity ravaging downtown.

He wiped the sweat off his brow and glanced around the room. Aside from the corpse and his own reckless entrance, it appeared undisturbed. Which was perfect. He strode over to the locker, flung it open, and pulled out his utility belt and a microsatchel that contained a host of other things within its interior dimensional folds. He didn’t just come here to grab his shit, though; there was a larger purpose, in a phrase, saving his ass. He snatched a key chain off the corpse of his fellow ne’er-do-well, practically bounced to the opposite side of the pad, and began opening the large metal door. Finally, it was open, the interior lit by the glow of faint red lights and reflective strips on the floor that ushered him inward. Automatically, the door shut behind him with a subtle sigh. Slews of panels decorated the walls, but there was one in particular that interested him. The one that would put an end to this shit-show and guarantee he could make it to the other side of the red haze that prevented anything from reasonably getting in or out of Allure City. Spencer didn’t hesitate. He just pushed the hell out of that big red button. It had the desired result, but it also knocked him the fuck out.

[center] . . . [/center]

[i]Urggpphtttuuuhk.[/i]

Spencer pushed himself away from the puddle of vomit on the warm metal floor. It was horrendous, the fang-ringed nematocysts tearing away his clothes and dragging him deeper into a gullet of death; the stench and the darkness that led nowhere but recurring everlasting agony. Yet, finally, he knew the name of his assailant, and he shouted it to the pinprick of light that eluded his countenance.

[I] “I know your name, Aracite! I’ll know it and I’ll kill you! I’ll—just die, already! Die! DIE! [b]DIE![/b]” [/i]

He choked out more vomit, rolled onto his back, and flung his forearm over his mouth. He wasn’t inside that thing. It was a dream; a nightmare he well knew, for it haunted him incessantly. Without it, he might not be an alcoholic. Well, okay, he probably still would be, but perhaps not one quite so thoroughly dedicated to the cause of debauch. 

Still, he was rank; he stunk like the inside of that torrid nightmare. His flesh was simultaneously hot and clammy, his breath labored, and his pupils dilated. Yet, more importantly, finally he remembered something. A flash as [i]Rhiannon[/i] and [i]Keefe[/i] intervened in the explosion’s aftermath. The beast was blown apart as it retreated into its weird dimensional abode, but the explosion abated, suspended in the midst of its destructive parlay between expanses. Detached flesh reflected light that did not move, paralysis encapsulated his soundless screams, and then without explanation everything seemed to reverse. Somehow, in that instant, he felt Aracite's fears and felt its weaknesses. Crazy though it might be, he was sure he knew how to destroy it.

He and his armaments were spat out, or, more accurately, flung through the space between spaces to find refuge in waking.

[I] There is no way that was real, [/i] Spencer thought, not that he believed it for a moment, then he lurched forward and belched.

He shook his head, tried to clear his mind, but regretted it. Despite his headache, he was still able to observe the time. It would be another couple hours before the city’s forcefield could be reactivated in the aftermath of the sabotage. The city’s defense grid was overwhelmed by an extraordinary amount of energy. It gave him time, enough to get the hell out of dodge.