Sensations assaulted her when the cargo bay yawned opened like a birthing womb, its ramp lowered whining with hydraulic exertion. She felt like being born: Ripped screaming from comfort, thrown into blinding light and noise, discombobulated and confused.

In a fit of panic, Alex jolted forward, gripping the armrests, and eased off when she realized where she was.

She shook off the cobwebs of a drug-assisted sleep, thankful to wake.

The haunting images wrestled with her conscience, even during her waking hours.

The scene had replayed twice already -- she saw herself marching a young girl into a room, gripping her by the nape of the neck, pushing the sobbing girl against the back wall. The distinct scents of the kitchen lingered in her nostrils – the spoiled food, the sour undertones of hashish, the urine from the girl's fear. The others were there too, Warchild, T-Bone, watching her with fangs, shouting for her to do it. Slash her! Her fingers began to drip and extend. Alex couldn't stop herself.

Pulling back the girl's head, the talons tore chunks from her throat. The arterial spray against the wall painted grotesque Pollock strokes.

At this moment as before, she would jump awake, sweating, eyes wide open. The nightmare was some hellish broken record, jolting her like a needle skipping its track only to repeat again the next time she closed her eyes. But it was the cackling laughter from Warchild, T-Bone and the rest of Cerberus, that shook her to her core.

She checked the time, pretending nothing had happened. No one had noticed her jolt. Three agonizing hours it had lasted, longer than the first time.

Around her, the team clicked to unlock their seat belts and prepared to disembark, their faces bright and happy. They were excited to be home. She was too, but instead of a clean triumphant return, she carried something back with her -- something dark and corrosive, eating at her conscience.

The men disembarked from the belly of the beast in twos.

Outside was Joint Base Anaconda, ten-square miles of concrete and fences within the military district east of DC. Though located inside Atlantic Economic League territory, the airlift hub was exempt from fief jurisdiction.

Clusters of squat structures sat near the edge of the runways, protected by chain-link fences fifteen-feet high, topped with razor wire. At the corners were towers armed with non-lethal motion-sensitive sound guns, swiveling on servo mounts. Unmistakable signs hanging every fifty-yards beyond the perimeters read: 'Federal Property'; 'Danger'; 'Keep Away'; 'Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted'.

Loading activities swarmed the tarmacs. Apart from dozens of yellow-painted service vehicles scurrying about, huge military forklifters, larger than buses, roared past, each curling tons of cargo barely missing them. Beyond the lifters, two gunships whirled into the sky, kicking out dust blasts a hundred meters from their vector rotors.

The frenzy was as familiar to them as home.

Eighteen unremarkable men and one woman in dot-matrix fatigues debarked with their ALICE packs and gear slung over their shoulders.

No brass band greeted them with patriotic music. No waiting families either. Instead, an army of lab-coated technicians exiting from black buses met these returning heroes. No one outside this corner had an inkling who they were or what they had accomplished.

Alex's dedicated med-tech sauntered up to her, anxious to find out her stasis while he took notes on a digital pad. She nodded her answers without looking at him. When the questions dried up, he gave her a small vial. In it were two pills.

"Take these two right now, chief," the tech urged.

She looked them over. Big 1200 mg mothers, one black, one red.

"Remember, the black pill is T-stoff, keeps your impulses in check so you don't go raging mad. The red pill is A-stoff -- one a day will keep the cancer ward away."

She popped both in her mouth and dry-swallowed. While he talked, she continued her walk in a mental haze. "You got anything for nightmares?"

He jotted the comment down and said, "Got just the thing. You'll be right as rain. Now we need to drain the rest of the liquid metal. We don't want you accidentally setting it off and clawing out."

"Reservoir's empty anyway," she said, flexing her arm. "It feels light."

Good news awaited them -- the unit was green-lighted to go to Houston to form the vanguard of TexPax's offensive force. Once, nations fought each other in million-man armies. Set-piece battle orders in time became obsolete. As super-conglomerates merged and became transcontinental, overseeing the commercial welfare of great regions and its denizens, when its operating budgets dwarfed the GDP of countries, it was no surprise the paramountcies demanded protection of their sovereignty like nations did. Aggression was the next logical step.

At first corporate security forces were defensive in nature, to protect land and property and to stop the occasional violent flareup of a disgruntled employee gone postal.

But that soon changed as corporate conflicts over dwindling resources and sphere protection escalated in frequency. Small-scale low-intensity engagements became acute, often conducted like drive-byes and hit-n-runs. After several clashes resulting in significant casualties, some Affiliates saw the need for an organized strike force capable of projecting power. Staying true to the age-old adage: the best defense is an offense, the paramountcies created security elements with aggressive profiles. Hence, Project Carnivora and its offspring Cerberus became a reality.

The past twenty-four hours had quietly demonstrated to interested parties what bio-mechanics could do -- a handful of operatives taking down a stronghold of hundreds and walking out with all hands. Though there were injuries, serious wounds were already healing fast with full recoveries expected by month's end. This was the new paradigm of soldiery with 100% combat survivability, to be adopted as corporate paramilitary.

Team Cerberus, the first to be operational, didn't disappoint. Inducted into a fief meant untold perks -- the finest equipment, the best facilities, title, and top pay, as promised. They'd gained Affiliate status, well almost.

The first night home was for winding down and time spent with family. The next evening was for the boys. The back room of a sports bar was rented for a private party, and special booze brought in -- highest potency moonshine made to order for a unique biology.

Cerberus began trickling in.

"We're the shit, folks," Rotter cawed with heady euphoria. "You gotta respect the talent." He was so excited he shook Papa Smurf, whose real name was Pete Murphy, "You know what this means? Do you guys realize what's ahead?"

"Yeah, it's party time," Papa said with a broad smile standing next to his wife, Bonnie.

Warchild arrived with his spouse, Lisa. The bouncer swiped a scanner over his wrist. Everything lit up a safe green hue -- active military, no outstanding warrant, legal age, and good credit.

The doorman performed the same scan on Lisa, a skinny slip of a girl with a pretty but tired face. She wore little makeup, her black hair falling loose to her shoulders. She seemed reserved, keeping a space between her and her husband.

"Thanks for coming, it means a lot," he said to her.

"I'll see you inside." She exhaled and headed off to the lavatory without looking back.

Warchild was wiry with a marathoner's frame, ideal for the profession. A Coronado alum, he had jumped at the chance to go through the Program when the word got around it was open for volunteers. Secrecy meant value, and the more he heard about it, the more he wanted in. With all the medical marvels out there yet out of reach by most, Ken Mars had volunteered to undergo the risky procedure.

The interior was lit by hundreds of painfully bright LED screens humming from continual cathode discharges that prickled the skin. The air hinted of ozone and ammonia. Holographic sharks circled near the ceiling, sometimes diving to the floor with open jaws, only to pass through solid objects.

Warchild made his way to the main bar. Rows of colored bottles decorated a long foggy mirror that took up the entire length of the joint. Pink holo-hostesses appeared as he neared, asking for drink orders. Sports of every kind were here. American football was center-stage, Euro football near the Ladies' room, basketball next to first shooter VR games and the kitchen. And the odds-making kiosks were everywhere.

He spotted his brothers in the back section between the billiard tables and dance floor. They saw him and waved him over.

"Yo, over here," cried Rotter, twenty-three, six one, freckled, and likewise lean.

Warchild came up and shook his hand. Rotter handed him a glass of clear liquid and winked.

"Better not be water." Warchild smirked.

"Firewater, Tonto." Rotter beamed. "Where's Lisa?"

"Bathroom." Warchild shrugged.

"Anyone see our fearless leader?" Tall T-Bone asked. "Is she bringing her friend?"

Rotter grinned. "Heard she's in love, you know . . ."

T-Bone's girlfriend mumbled with distaste.

"Yum, good for her," T-Bone said. "Yo Papa, over here."

"Papa, you big galoot," Rotter called over to him.

'Papa Smurf' Murphy steered toward them. A stocky square-faced New Yorker with a pleasant smile, Papa was a doting father of three toddlers. Yet, no one could imagine a killer uber-mensch could be so gentle.

Papa beamed and rubbed his hands together, "Toss me one of those, will ya? Let's get this party started. Whoop!"

"This stuff is fuckintastic," said Rotter, handing a clear unmarked bottle to Papa.

"The stars are aligned tonight, brothers. You might even get lucky, Rotter." Papa winked.

"I'm on fire, baby." Rotter hooted.

"You pissing razor blades again?"

"On fire!" He sang off-key. "Give war a chance . . ."

Rotter danced his way over to Warchild, who was talking with T-Bone and his girlfriend.

"I hear their signing bonus is as much as a two-years' salary in the army," T-Bone said to Warchild. His moniker came from dreaming of steaks during a long-range patrol. The name stuck.

"Yeah," Warchild said. "Plus per diem. You okay with relo to Texas? Hot as balls down there."

"TexPax, Pacifica, Midland, I don't care who I work for as long as they pay for the talent," Rotter said, gyrating. "Bigger house, bigger paycheck, bigger guns. So, when do we pack?"

"When our marching orders get here," Warchild said.

"I'm ready now," T-Bone said, putting his arms around his sweetheart.

"You're not getting rid of me, bucko," she said and pinched his behind. He yelped playfully.

"Yeah, plenty of wetbacks down there so you'll fit in nice." Rotter winked, suspended in mid-dance moves.

"Up yours, pendejo." T-Bone gave him the bird. The four laughed.

"Hot damn, exciting times ahead." Rotter resumed dancing and shaking.

By now regular customers began to arrive. Rotter spotted a dance partner he fancied and gyrated over toward the hapless girl.

"Look at him go. Get 'em Rotter you mangy dog!" Warchild and Papa watched him, shaking their heads in laughter.

Lisa, Warchild's wife had returned from the bathroom. The men hugged her, one at a time with delicate respect.

"Feeling okay?" Warchild asked her.

"I'm all right."

Warchild tried to put his arm around her but she shrugged him off her. T-Bone and his girl saw the slight but pretended not to notice.

"There she is," Papa called out interrupting the awkwardness. "At last."

"Chief, over here," T-Bone called out.

"Holy moly, will you look at that," Rotter exclaimed, coming back from the floor without a partner.

The men stopped and ogled; the women quieted and stepped back. The girl Alex brought was taller than she was, statuesque and curvaceous, a Latina with long dark hair. She wore a delicate mid-length cocktail dress, while Alex was in iconic attire -- jeans, boots, suspenders over a white wife-beater, and a black fedora, perfecting her dominant role.

Rotter elbowed Papa. "How the hell she swiped that?"

"Maybe because she got the right plumbing and you don't?"

Rotter looked below. "Ain't nothing wrong with my spout."

Alex approached the boys, and introduced the new squeeze, "This is Camila, everyone. Mi amore, these mongrels, with their tongues out, are my family." They cooed, trying to embarrass her. Alex scratched her forehead with an extended middle finger. "This is Papa Smurf and his wife Bonnie -- they're busy -- expecting number four."

Papa nodded and beamed. Bonnie shook Camila's hand and frowned at her spouse.

"And that's Rotter," Alex continued. "He's by himself -- for good reason." She reached out and clutched his arm. "Rabies. Girls know to stay away from him."

Everyone howled.

"Hey," Rotter protested. "Nothin wrong with the Rotter."

"Course not, he's our Rot," T-Bone said, rubbing the kid's head.

They snickered at the playful digs.

Rotter muttered, "Rough crowd tonight."

"We're just messing around."

"And this is Ken Mars," Alex said to Camila, her smile fading fast. Something lingered between them, a reaction like a morning breath that had become noxious making each person turn away. Once Cerberus was officially private, she vowed to drum him out. And the best way was Hydra, a second team she heard was forming -- he could be cock of the roost there. Cerberus was hers, and it ain't big enough for the two of them, now that the Program was heading for the big time. But unpleasantness could wait -- you never poop on the cake before it's cut. "His wife Lisa, this is Camila."

"Hello," Warchild's wife answered, breaking off eye-contact as if she wanted no part of the group, Alex sensed.

"Shots! Line 'em up," Papa hollered while Bonnie looked on with mild disapproval.

"You think that's wise with the meds?" Bonnie said.

"I can down it all night, honey." Papa winked. "This stuff's like fruit juice."

"So you said until it leads to other things, yeah?" Bonnie said, tapping her swollen belly.

Warchild said, "Docs said alcohol's effect is lessened, Bonnie. We can do a whole bottle of grain alcohol in five minutes -- "

"We don't talk about it," Alex snapped, the severity surprising.

"Talk about what?" Camila asked, now curious.

"Nothing, love," Alex said, caressing Camila's hand.

"What's the big deal?" Warchild said not thinking.

"I said zip it."

"Tell me what?" Camila pleaded.

"Not here," Alex softened to Camila.

"I don't see no issue," Warchild said.

"What is your problem, Mars? Is it because I'm a woman?" Alex glared at him.

"I was kidding around," Warchild said. "It's your business what you do."

"You are my business, mister." Alex snorted, her nostrils flared. Whatever minor misunderstanding there was between them had solidified into something personal and deep.

"Honey," Camila breathed, touching her arm. "What's going on?"

Alex stepped away, pursing her lips.

An awkward silence rolled in even with the thumping music and dancers jumping around them.

"Forget it," Camila said. "This is your night."

The music was ratcheting up, going full blast. People spilled onto the dance floor amid whirling couples, the club at full capacity now.

"Let the Rotter show you his moves." Rotter took Camila to the dance floor breaking the tension.

Alex was glad for a few minutes by herself. She stood to the side downing the alcohol in tense, rapid-fire gulps. She passed the empty glass to a hover-server. The suction locked the glass in place as it drifted off to empty its load at the bar with the aid of human hands.

T-Bone passed her a second bottle. As she gulped it down, she noticed a muted news cut-in playing on a nearby TV monitor, ignored by everyone. An important news flash had interrupted a prerecorded octagon bout between cybenized fighters.

One by one, people's internal and external telephones beeped and rattled, social media alarms pinging and buzzing with some viral news burning up the media. The broadcast on the lone screen soon jumped to a second monitor, then to another. Now everyone was seeing it.

"Turn it up," Alex shouted to the bartender.

The melody stopped as couples walked off the dance floor.

As the tune died off, they could hear better. Other stations switched to the same broadcast, their synced volumes echoing throughout the club while colorful sharks swirled overhead unconcerned.

The announcer paused. "Hold on a second." Placing one hand over his eye, he received instructions coming from HUD projections on the back of his retina. "Ladies and gentlemen, bear with me, this just in -- we have received added news from our affiliates in Global Guardian. We must warn you the video you're about to see may be disturbing."

A combat footage unfolded from the point of view of a shooter in a tactical stack, moving through the hallways and rooms of an unknown building. The feed from a body camera was in ambient light, and grainy; the view displayed in greenish Night Observation System. Inter-cut scenes showed a roof breech, a thunderous flash of light, a jump-through landing onto a lower floor. Then flashes of gunfire lit up from every direction as depicted through the camera's viewpoint. Combat actions were erratic, the images shuffling and disjointed. But the pops of gunfire and screams were present and constant.

To the men and women of Cerberus, the operation just happened yesterday, the event fresh in their minds. And personal.

The feed on the monitors continued playing. It moved into a kitchen, the breathing of the wearer rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The frame settled on two gunmen who had arrived beforehand. And they had found a young girl hiding under a table.

She screamed in hysteric fits.

A voice, female belonging to the camera-wearer said, "Leave her. She's no threat, just a domestic . . ."

The scene rolled forth to its graphic conclusion with a single shot. Gasps of horror rose from several corners in the club.

"Oh my God, is it you?" Camila asked. "You were there."

Alex didn't answer, turning to pale granite.

The feed ended. The stunned reporter offered apologies and heartfelt commentary.

Around them, many civilians whooped and cheered. Some even clapped. Alex covered her mouth in shock, unable to speak. Warchild remained impassive a few feet away. The cat was out of the bag -- undisputed evidence that the killers were North Americans. And all bets were off. Suddenly, the promise of a bright future dimmed.

Without warning, Lisa directed her venom at her husband, "Is this what you do on your missions, Ken? Kill young girls?" The shooter on the video was apparent.

Warchild pleaded, "Lisa, don't. Not here."

His wife shrugged, then turned away. "I don't know you anymore and I'm so sick of secrets. I'm out of here. Find your way home."

Her vehemence threw the men back. T-Bone drew pictures with his foot.

"You okay?" Rotter patted Warchild's shoulder after Lisa walked away.

"Yeah, I'm cool, but --" Warchild flicked his head to the screens, then at Alex. He didn't need to say more.

People around them began to recognize the actors as carping eyes and blaming fingers hemmed in the group. They soon turned to angry scowls.

"We're getting out of here this minute," Bonnie said with alarm, grabbing her husband.

"Anyone wants to talk about this," Papa said. "I'll be at my place."

Warchild had had enough and blurted out, confronting Alex, "You did this."

"Back off." Alex shoved him hard.

Warchild faced her with a cold stare. "You fucked us. It was your NOS feed!"

Papa turned around; he and Rotter stepped in between urging for them to calm.

"How could you think this?" Alex shouted over them.

"You tell me you didn't!" Warchild hissed back.

"Why would I?"

"Misplaced morality -- something your type would do."

"What type is that?" She eyed him dangerously. "Just because I didn't want to murder an innocent girl, unlike you."

They didn't realize a circle had formed around the spat -- the whole night club was watching.

Bonnie shoved her husband and bolted for the exit.

Alex turned on her heels leading Camila in tow.

The rest of Cerberus followed suit and dispersed into the night.