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Tartalo’s pupils flushed with digital brilliance as the subject adapts its physiology in response to extreme external stimulus. Intrigued at the malleable nature of its fur, he began to ponder what, exactly, its threshold was as he traced an obscure pattern into the air. The nanothin membrane coating Tartalo’s inner retinas parsed the thaumic signature, synapses firing along synthetic tissue into neobohrium spikes in his optic nerves.

Its words came to him with a slight delay as they were filtered through layers of anti-memetic countermeasures, visualized as a translucent spectrogram in the corner of his field of vision. His dialectical optimizer dissected every word and began to assemble a rudimentary psychological profile of Merse.

<< Ekhi, continue to breakdown pupillary responses and infrared analyses with the dermal scanner. >>

“If you deal in information, then this will be a most pleasant exchange.” The music faded into the background but continued to play as Tartalo spoke, the darkness of the chamber suddenly replaced with a simulacra of Earth’s orbit, distant stars dwarfed by a colossal cnidarian flanked by an unfathomable legion that threatened to engulf the planet. Perspective continued to shift, alien worlds suspended between teeming monstrosities growing in scope until the feed was suddenly cut short, once more plunging the cuboid chamber in darkness.

“Why have you invaded us?”

A gestalt overlaid Merse's restrained form, registering spikes in activity in what the Aldaré had determined to serve as its amygdala at the image of the gruesome behemoth. Microvascular activity increased 30% and the apparition's hue shifted along the infrared spectrum as the subject calmed itself. Tell-tale fear responses.

"Invade? Let me respond with a question. Are you familiar with psychic measures of suppression? There is an individual whose existence I have barred from my mind simply because the mere thought of "him" allowed for my location to be revealed and mind to be probed. As an information broker, I realize public knowledge has zero capital. This individual is a threat to my empire. The reason I tell you this is because I have installed specific triggers in my mind to warn me when he was close. The gargantuan horror which I've come to know as Brobdingnag is one of those triggers, and here it is. What doesn't make sense is that if I was found, why use such excessive force? To add to the bleakness of things, I was unaware that Brobdingnag commanded a fleet and other horrors like it. As terrifying as this all is, the absurdity of the situation is quite intriguing. If this isn't all clear to you by now, let me say this. This ‘invasion’, is a mutual problem of ours."

The air grew dense as the chamber's temperature plummeted into the sub zero range, localized around the Aldaré. Another discharge of electricity pulsed through Merse.

“Refrain from any further questions.”

<< Ekhi, ping Apollo and make sure he patches in. Tangential connection with hostiles discovered. >>

“I am quite familiar with methods of suppression, although undoubtedly our praxis differs.” Photons distorted visibly as the image of the titanic jellyfish filled the room, hovering threateningly over Merse. Its form burst into a shower of kaleidoscopic particulates that reformed into the charging figure of gold clad in gaudy clothing.

“What is your connection with this man?”
Marange, NYUNDO Headquarters

"Then out of respect for me and my client..."
"We extend all courtesy and are most gracious to have you as guests." The response came from behind the trio. Startled, they turned to face the broad figure that dominated a kolwezite archway fashioned into the image of a baobab's bole.

Makemba rose from beside Ndakala and stormed across the room towards the new arrival and began to beat them mercilessly with a sullied rag. "Khethiwe! You hyena's ass!"

Khethiwe laughed and gave old Makemba a playful wail in response to the beating as Ndakala and Miss Benson exchanged surprised glances over the stone carafes they sipped from. Surprise soon faded to apprehension as the two whispered quickly in a tongue unfamiliar to Ndakala.

Khethiwe gestured toward the pygmy with a beckoning wave as Makemba took Miss Benson by the arm and gently led her towards an adjoining chamber that rich aromas wafted from. "There is one who would speak with you, my friend. Come."

Ndakala accompanied the large figure of Khethiwe past the arch that shimmered brilliantly in the firelight and down a dark corridor that branched off intermittently until reaching a sight that made the pygmy's steps falter.

The pair had come to something so fantastic Ndakala's mind struggled to process; beyond them was a kaleidoscopic tunnel that wound its way past his sightline. Scurrying to match his guide's gait, he marveled at the tessellated walls that recounted a history he had no time to string together. “Unbelievable, isn't it?" Khethiwe peered over his shoulder and gave an understanding wink, fingertips dancing along a mosaic-- viridian and teal patchwork depicting surging waters.

A muted grunt of acknowledgement was all Ndakala could muster as the two walked in retrospective silence. After some time, the visitor became aware of a distant drone and in stunned realization blurted "Is.. is that water?" A small chuckle was all that came in response as they came to a fork in the path. They continued on the right-hand path when Khethiwe began.

"Makemba tells me you spoke of Phalaborwa and were saddened to hear of it burning. You would be pleased to know that much of its people were saved from such a terrible fate and you personally played a hand in their survival. Most have been relocated further north, while those that wish to fight will call Marange home from here forward. The one you met- the one that charged you with bringing the child to us; she is their champion and would have been able to do little for them had she been focused on protecting the little one."

They paused, and for the first time did Ndakala note that his guide's pace had slowed. Only when abreast with Khethiwe did he observe how haggard, almost shrunken, they were when compared to less than an hour ago. Deep channels had appeared beneath round, cheerful eyes and their skin seemed to have taken on an ashened hue.

"As such, our leader would be very pleased to speak with you." They extended a hand forward and pulled open a pellucid hatch that served as a barrier to the humidity that crept into the tunnel. What had once been a muted drone grew to a roar as Ndakala entered an expansive chamber that once more left him speechless. They stood at a precipice overlooking a worn path that meandered through a forest of towering fungi pocked with spires of crystal, neatly divided by a rushing river.

Their descent was slow going, Khethiwe growing more tired with each shaded crevice or panoramic gulch, and having reached the path's ingress into the mycological marvel they asked for a moment's rest. Ndakala nodded and made his way towards the fungal brake's brink, slightly intoxicated with the surrealness of his environs. As he grew closer he felt a strange quality in the air, his skin tingling in response. In the distance the river's surging was a pleasant backdrop to the retreat at his presence of fat salamanders between gregarious stalks that loomed overhead. Bejeweled beetles fluttered upon diaphanous wings as they sprauchled from bulbs swollen with fluorescent sap, and somewhere far-off he could hear the playful baying of unknown beasts.

Moved beyond the limitations of language, Ndakala lost himself in the primal orchestra that permeated throughout. Wishing to express the gratitude he felt at being shown this place, he turned back to check on his guide. "What miracle created such an environment?"

His words caught in his throat as Khethiwe's form slumped forward from its seated position atop a rock. Ndakala recoiled in horror upon turning the guide's form over with a sickening squelch. A viscous and malodorous fluid poured from several cracks that had appeared along Khethiwe's torso, and with one last shuddering breath their form collapsed in upon itself. Within the cavity that had moments prior been Khethiwe, lay a shriveled figure, slick with putrescence.

"Sorry you had to see that. Thought I'd get here before he ran out of time." Khethiwe stepped down the forest path, offering a hand to the kneeled pygmy.

“Ran out of -- what in the name of Khonvoum? What did I just witness?"

“Not all of our gifts are as wonderful as Najwa’s or Kengue’s,” Khethiwe approached the withering remains of its Helmasi and gave a brief nod in respect of its passing, “but we use what we are capable of to help. Now, unless you’d like to witness how I give the Helmasi form, I suggest you follow the trail until you reach the vitreous lagoons of the Kichaka Siri.” Khethiwe gave Ndakala an encouraging wave of dismissal and as the pygmy began their unaccompanied trek he could hear uncomfortable dry heaving from his former guide’s location.

Meanwhile in the NYUNDO Barracks...

“I should have been more aware of how emotionally compromising the mission was for you. I can only blame myself for your hesitation in separating a child from their family, habibi.” The old man sat absentmindedly picking at a cuticle of his wooden prosthesis. A heavy sigh gave way to a soft chuckle before he continued. “We may come to regret the boldness of our activities, but for now let us celebrate our victories. You make us all proud, Najwa.”

Back turned to Assad, Najwa stood at a basalt basin fed from the grinning maw of a lion and washed away the blood and ash of the previous 24 hours. The majority of the XSF uniform she’d expropriated earlier lay in a huddled mass at her feet. She paused to observe her countenance reflected in the algid pool, droplets running down taut bronze flesh. She stepped away from the basin and entered a chamber adjoining her quarters, its threshold artfully hewn in prismatic dolomite. “Has Kengue returned,” she inquired from the other room as her father gave an aged groan, stooping to collect the uniform.

“I insisted he remain at Malawi and rest. He pushes himself too far, just like you.” The old man deposited the clothes into a narrow chute and stretched, muscles trembling upon full extension.

“You’re one to talk, or do you think we can’t see just how old the Lion has become?” Najwa shot back puckishly. She stepped back into the anteroom, now comfortable in her NYUNDO fatigues. “And Mshale? I heard he too came across the unexpected during his operation.”

“As for that,” Assad began…

NYUNDO Stockades

Mshale held fast to the thrashing ghoul he'd taken from Xanathan’s talons, its gaunt form writhing against telekinetic might, suspended several feet off the mottled cave floor. Guttural curses were locked away as its frame was forcefully flung against a cell carved into the porous wall. Through the application of his willpower, Mshale slid a dense and translucent slab of quartz over the cell’s only opening.

He spat in disgust at the distorted image of his cadaverous captive as it scuttled about its new quarters in bestial fashion. “I should kill you now and be done with this uroyi.” He began to apply more pressure, agonizing rivulets gouging into the creature’s splintering mandible.

A soothing palm pressed against the center of Mshale’s broad back and he turned, immediately relinquishing his psionic grasp. “Release your anger, and focus that ever so dreadful mind on me.” Her voice, sweeter than passion fruit, ushered him out of the stockades and into the warmth of her embrace.

Rendenvauld (formerly Johannesburg, South Africa)

“Tonight marks the third night of skirmishes between Pro-Human forces and dissident elements. The protests are in response to unsubstantiated reports of lethal repression and have once again sparked controversy amongst Xanathan intelligentsia, with some being so bold as to claim that even if the reports were true…” the announcer’s audio was lost within the stochastic *THUNK* of 40mm canisters showering chemical irritants over a roaring multitude of clashing protesters.

Tear gas rose in billowing plumes, choking gasps lost in the throng’s tumult as Jean-Yves Mbappé broke through the mob; his grip a vice around his wife’s hand. They had the misfortune of being caught in a dissident demonstration after the Maglev rails were blocked with overturned construction equipment. Their footsteps retreated down an alleyway as the rapport of several minor explosions shook them to their knees; vivid orange and crimson flames reached for the partially-obscured full moon as he paused to peer back at the thoroughfare. Jean-Yves’ ears rang with the unmistakable staccato of gunfire as he wrapped his arms protectively around Delphine’s shoulders, shuffling onward in a panic. An agitated buzz reverberated through their skulls as they were unexpectedly blinded by the sudden discharge of an immobilizing arclight and they stumbled blindly into the adroitly manicured courtyard of Hyŏng Cybernetics.

“손 들어! 손 들어!” The couple were swiftly encircled by a force of armored individuals moving in unison, K7 submachine guns at the ready.

“S’il vous plait! On ne comprend pas!” Jean-Yves pleaded, eyes flushed with tears. A piercing ring accompanied each interrogatory wave of their barrel-mounted flashlights as his sight struggled to return. Scrabbling in search of Delphine, his world reeled with the impact of a reinforced boot across his cheek. “Je.. je prie…,” he muttered through a swelling jaw as more blows landed. A crumpled mass on the courtyard’s cobblestone, Delphine stared vacantly as her young husband was brutally beaten.

“중지!” An authoritative voice undercut the clattering of ceralloy armor plates, putting an immediate end to the assault. Panting heavily, the detachment stood at attention as the man groaned at their feet. The air grew still with the audible deactivation of the arclamps. A slender figure approaches Jean-Yves, swimming through the haze of pain from his left eye being swollen shut, and stoops to inspect a deep laceration. “C'est une mauvaise lésion,” the figure knelt and assisted Jean-Yves to a seated position, “Devons ralentir le saignement.”

The cool silk of the man’s handkerchief pressed against the wound and without lifting his gaze he commanded, “내 차, 당장!” One of the armored individuals gave a salute in response and withdrew with a hurried jog.

“Mademoiselle, votre mari a besoin d'un hôpital. Es-tu blessé aussi?” No response came from Delphine other than shuddering sighs. “Mademoiselle?”

With a surge of resolve Jean-Yves lifted himself enough to turn towards his wife and shakily rasp, “D-Delphine…” Recognition washed over her features with an audible whimper and she scrambled over to her husband. “J-Jean.. Jean, qu'ont-ils fait? Qu’ont-ils fait..”

“Calme, Delphine.. Calme.” Finally aware of the man assisting Jean-Yves, she bawled while pointing angrily at the remaining armored guards, “Qu’ont-ils fait! Bâtards! Lâches! Mon pauvre mari.. Mon mari..”

“해산!” The detachment departed at the command, leaving the the couple and their unknown protector to be illuminated by the headlights of a sleek luxury sedan. “Aidez-moi à le soulever, Delphine. Allons à l'hôpital.”

A few hours later…

Sudwala Caves, Xanathan Territories

"Ptah درخواست RA،’ چطور باید محدود شوند؟ ‘
'در غیاب من'، اعلام کرد RA
و به Ptah داده شده است

The eldritch invocation echoed through each cavernous chamber of the cave system, its cadence growing in fervor with each repetition. Its source was a hooded figure, clad in cobalt vestments whose utterances were produced behind a mask in the graven image of an ibis. Arms slick with viscera, the figure scrawls an elaborate series of sanguineous runes upon a length of papyrus soaked in the urine of a jackal. Setting the scroll aside, they bent over the lifeless bodies of Jean-Yves and Delphine before straightening with a lock of each’s hair. The papyrus and hair were deposited into a canopic jar, sealed with a lid depicting a crocodile.

"دانتوں اور دانشوں کے گرین کا تیز،
وہ جو بخار میں خوش ہے. "

The robed personage’s chant eerily layered itself upon the initial antediluvian syllables, feeding into one another through an occult ouroboros of octaves. Their footsteps traced a pattern in entrails strewn across the cave floor, the canopic jar held aloft. At the end of the pattern upon a dais of Precambrian design stood a scale that dwarfed its acolyte. Fashioned by no mortal hand, the scale’s fulchrum was carved into the oblong likeness of a six-eared kudu, aureate helixed-horns lined with bands of lapis lazuli and turquoise. A basalt beam was thrust through its eyes, ending in fine chains of silver from which hung deep bowls. Suspended between its cervid antlers was a true microcosm, perceived as a prismatic, pulsating mass; and where they met upon its brow was a glaring third eye, cast in diamonds. Setting the canopic jar within one of the scale’s bowls, the figure was lost in zealous fervor as he began the final invocation.

"היא חיפשה אותו ללא הרף, היא הסתובבה סביב כדור הארץ הזה בצער, והיא לא נרתעה ולא מצאה אותו".

The fabric of reality churned as spacetime was rent asunder, and above the scale’s empty bowl appeared a desiccated heart that undulated sickeningly with its manifestation. It collapsed with a clatter, plunging the cave into a Stygian darkness.

The gap between them had closed during her advance and Najwa now found herself nearing the tiered ring's raised edge. In that time, her mind had begun to assess the principles of her opponent's motions and capabilities. She made note of the furrows carved by her previous shots; the momentum with which her first shots had been returned and the speed necessary to intercept rounds traveling at nearly 1,140 ft/sec. Postulating that the two were of comparable speeds, her next course of action was determined at the exact moment she leapt off the edge.

The platform gave way with a brutal crack as a winding trench split down the epicenter of where she'd pushed off from. Those desiccated husks nearest her had toppled over while others began to fall into the collapsing structure, plumes of disturbed dust and smoke rising towards the high windows.

Poised to strike with a retracted left fist, Najwa soared through the air at a descending 30 degree angle. Wary of her opponent's withdrawn appendage, she would be mindful to clear her own speeding profile with her firearm by tucking in her right elbow as her left arm began to shoot forward to complete a powerful straight punch. If left unimpeded the prismatic alloy of her reinforced knuckles would make a solid connection with the mtyholi's jaw.
Following the capture of Merse Granstrum by Mobius Ops, the target has been brought to New Roswell to be interrogated by Operative Tartalo at the request of Apollo Amon.
600km above the Northern Hemisphere, arcjet engines hiss hydrazine as the reaction control systems engage on a surveillance satellite. They discharge in short bursts at Tartalo's command, propelling the Survsat over the former Iberian Peninsula at a rate of 40,000 km/h. Variegated bands of the richest teal and crimson emerge as real-time observation capabilities came online.

The cold eye of the aperture adjusts itself and the resolution shifts, revealing the bands to be expansive pastures cultivated by automated means. Tartalo confirms the coordinates once more, a cold wave washing over him. Gone.

The crisp and clear waters of the Zubizabala Erreka rush between bare toes as two young boys play on the river's banks. A rich petrichor permeates the Otzaretta Forest as it blooms with life after a light Spring rain. The pair had spent the days in search of berries at the request of Patxi's grandmother. She'd promised the duo a delicious tart each if they could fill the basket they'd so carelessly flung aside at first sight of the water.

"I have a gift for you, Ortzi!" the boy squealed as he unearthed a wriggling worm from the loam. He rose with muddied hands and giggled at the screams of his friend who plunged headlong into the waters, a cold wave washing over them. Gone.

With the speed of thought, the Survsat adjusts its translation with a second engagement of its reaction control system. The feed suffers from momentary distortion before the image clears and Tartalo's heart plummets. Bilbao... Its history... Its culture... He leans against a graphene pane as the weight of memory threatens to overwhelm him.

"Ortzi, these are amazing!" The girl spoke between satisfied hums as she savored the rich combination of txistorra and talos. She bashfully wiped some of the grease from the corner of her mouth as he watched her, a smile plastered across his fine features.

"I spend way too much time here," he dabbed at her cheek with his thumb and she flushed, "to not know where the best flavors hide." He took a small bite of his own, turning away from her to marvel at the colors of sunset as they spread across the Bay of Biscay.

Heather and heliotrope hues gleam off the Guggenheim's edifice in a mesmerizing vista of phantasmagoric quality. "Sabine, am I dreaming? There are times when I find myself adrift with you, and everything takes on this... I'm sorry." He flushes, surprised at his own candor.

With a crack and sudden dispersal of EWG molecules, three Mobius operatives, target in tow, appear within the dimly lit chamber that Tartalo had requested within New Roswell's containment facilities. The Survsat relay is minimized to a fraction of his field of vision, the once familiar coastline of Bilbao now dotted with alien architecture.

Somewhere deep in his consciousness, Ekhi's voice notifies him that thaumic and psionic countermeasures have engaged. A second window affixed to Tartalo's sight finishes its analysis of the subject's retrieval footage as he issues further commands to the AI. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in observing the target being slammed into the Aldare, engineered from Red Technocracy tech and modified by Tartalo and Babazorro to meet his unique specifications. Restraints form from the Aldare's composite nanotech and pin the target's form to its slab.

The felinoid form remains immobile upon the austere fixture. Data floods Tartalo's vision as Ekhi confirms xenobiometrics have been quantified and catalogued within the Aldare's quantum drives. He inspects the new information with a keen eye as heavy footsteps outside of the chamber's only exit announce the arrival of the quarantine unit. A field of hard light appears as the airlocks hiss opens and expands to fill the space between the Q.U. and the three Mobius operatives. Their forms are engulfed and all foreign matter is contained within the construct.

"Boss isn't taking any chances, is he?" Sweat gave an exasperated whistle as he, Dex and Sarge were escorted out of the chamber, down the containment hall and into an adjacent cell where they would be observed and debriefed for an indeterminate amount of time.

The cell is plunged into an atramentous darkness with their exit, and an ominous silence fills the atmosphere. It hangs in the air, growing more oppressive with each passing second. The target continues in its ill-conceived ruse, unaware that its being was laid bare for Tartalo.

The rhythmic cracks of drums cut through the silence at the same moment 100,000 volts pass through the fettered subject. The notes snap with anticipation as another jolt is discharged. A disembodied voice lisps softly between dulcet woodwinds. "Tut tut, such childishness."

A third discharge, this time prolonged for several measures of the composition that swelled to life with the beginning of their exchange.

"We'll begin with your name."
are there any established orthodoxies? considering a cleric on pilgrimage.
As the archway above and behind her bursts with the sudden impact of crushed lead, her resolve strengthens with the explosive confirmation of her suspicions. If not a demon, it was still a creature of immense power in the husk of a man. Najwa wondered- how much power?

She recalled one particular lesson during her training with Asad. As a human in a rapidly changing world where geomancy or telekinesis were becoming the norm, his wits were his greatest weapon.

For now, she wouldn't reveal the extent of her own capabilities. Her movements carry her laterally while the first pebbles behind her strike the ground; she double-taps the trigger once more and aims for its center mass. The shots are timed just before she bounds behind a robed mummy. Her goal is to reach the creature's left flank while steadily closing the distance between them, using the myriad shrines as cover.

All of these motions had the appearance of a highly trained operative moving with tactical efficiency and a bit of good timing.
Gossamer pennons of fragrant smoke rose slowly from the occasional brazier scattered through out the wide chamber. She wonders if these mummified remains surrounding her are the victims of the slowly rising form. Its movements were strained, and its bones cracked like splintering wood. How long had it been there, waiting?

It spoke the language of her southern cousins with a voice like wind passing through gnarled roots. It gestured at the ground at its feet in invitation; to what? The longer she remained in this place, the more unnatural it felt. Not in the same way as Marange, where life flourished in fantastic fashion. This was a place of death.

The mtyholi were known for their treachery and spoke such sweet words to lull so many to their doom. She would not allow this. Two shots ring out and sand erupts at its feet. She makes a mental note of the remaining 8 rounds in her magazine.

"Return me now! I warn you, there will be consequences!" Her tone remains even as she takes a slight step to her left, repositioning herself so that she was provided partial cover by one of the mummies.
Hamta Pass, Himalayas

A haze descends upon a lone rider as the sun falls behind the summit of Mt. Indrasa, muting the beauty of approaching dusk. Rhododendron stalks droop beneath the rain's oppression. The sound of hooves is lost to the surging waters of the Hamta river as the horse steadily climbs and a burlap sack fastened to the saddle sways. Three hours of hard riding behind him, with another two yet to come until he reached the glacier in Lahaul.

The rider adjusts the heavy shawl wrapped around his shoulders and jaw as he comes to a small bluff. A few reassuring pats and he dismounts, eager for the smooth terrain of the Shea Goru plain that lay hidden beneath a fog that obscured all but the highest neighboring peaks.

He rubs some sensation back into his legs and once satisfied begins to rummage through a saddle bag. Producing a wrapped bundle of beets, he removes one from the bunch and returns the rest. The horse eats eagerly from a gloved hand while insects gather round.

The man dismisses the insects with a wave and unfastens the sack from the saddle. It squelches as he pulls the burlap loose from the congealed blood and ligament of a severed head.

Anatnag District, Jammu & Kashmir

Deodar cedars sway to and fro as a cool afternoon breeze sweeps through the Lidder valley. Seated outside Khuda's meazbaan, a man in light cotton clothing happily sips rose-colored tea. The previous two days in the hill station of Pahalgam had brought many delights; none more so than the cuisine. His contemplation of the tea's bold flavor is cut short as a woman's voice whispers in his ear.

"Target vehicles approaching from the south."

A week ago he'd been in Mumbai, investigating reports of increased activity amongst black market arms dealers. Now, he wasn't quite so sure what he'd uncovered. Two sleek SUV's came to a halt a few businesses from where the man sat, observing surreptitiously.

"Do your thing, Ekhi." His response came as he took another sip, his thoughts vocalized to the AI through sub-dermal implants. A stream of visual information blipped into existence, feeding him data on the vehicle, its occupants and their unique modifications. Heavily armed and enhanced, each bore a rotating briolette on their left temple; visible only through augmented reality. This was most definitely it. "Tartalo here. Commencing operation."

The man faded from sight, a handful of coins left beside the unfinished cup.

Mt. Indrasa, Himalayas

Gales blast Tartalo against the sheer rockface as he chipped away with the adze of an ice-axe, creating some footing for himself. He engaged a haptic lock, removing all worry about his grip failing him at this dizzying height. Somewhere, an hour or two after his ascent he would reach his destination. All the intel he'd recovered led him here, grazing the world's ceiling.

He gave another swing, ice-axe passing through open air as he awkwardly shifted, suddenly weightless. Space distorted around him then came back into focus, finding himself surrounded by gleaming surfaces and bustling technicians.

"Que carajo? Where was my warning?" Tartalo fumed, picking himself up from the teleportation chamber's floor. Whether he addressed those around him or Ekhi was unsure. The uniformed figure of General Millheiser stepped forward as a dossier accounting the events of the last 48 hours since Allure touched down was fed to Ekhi.

"You've been reassigned."
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