Kurst had only flown a few times before. It was a magnificent feeling, but he was discovering that was true about many things in the mortal world. It was hard to imagine that he had been deprived of this for so very long. Two Blackhawk helicopters, packed with Nemesis assets and their STFU handlers, were speeding south. Out one door were the scattered lights of human habitation. Out the other was the endless black of the ocean. Kurst did not possess enough poetry to see this as any sort of metaphor for his existence.

All of them could hear Stricken’s words through their headsets. “Ladies and gentlemen, the playoffs have started. Paranormal Tactical’s snipers jumped the gun and engaged. The rest of them are moving in from the highway. It looks like the Germans are coming in from the ocean. Those clever Krauts are our reigning division champs, but this is still anybody’s ball game.” Stricken was watching the UAV feed on a small computer screen. “There are other Hunters nipping at their heels. Which one of these bitter rivals will get the ring and take on Franks in the big game? Who will take it? Who will reign supreme?”

Eventually, I will, strange human . . . “I do not know, sir.”

The albino looked up at Kurst. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, First?”

“I am no longer First Prototype. I have taken the name Kurst.” He stabbed two fingers against the name stenciled on the ceramic breastplate of his body armor.

“Is that supposed to be symbolic or something?”

“You gave me permission to choose a name as Franks chose his own name. I chose this one. Does this not please you?”

“Sure, whatever. I’ll leave the psychoanalyzing to Dr. Bhaskara. You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood, Kurst, but anyway, there wasn’t a lot of sports in that educational feed of yours, was there?”

His education had consisted of being continually bombarded with images and data while his physical body had congealed in a glass tube. He might not understand everything about the mortal world, but he at least knew the correct words. “A minimal amount. Enough for context.”

“I should remedy that. You guys would be unstoppable. Fuck the draft. I should just sell Nemesis assets directly to the NFL . . . Come on, nothing, First? That was funny as hell.”

Kurst forced the muscles of his face to smile.

“Shit. Don’t do that. You’re unnerving as fuck. . . . This is exciting stuff right here.” Stricken went back to his monitor. “Looks like Franks brought some interesting toys. Fantastic. That son of a bitch is just standing there in the open . . . If this Air Force UAV we commandeered would have had some Hellfire missiles on it, Franks would be a meat cloud right now. I’ll need to remedy that in the future. Stupid Posse Comitatus act . . .”