Overwhelmed by the heat and stifling humidity, Adam trudged through the jungle, disoriented and fearing that the stress from what happened with Al Shaula had finally driven him mad.

  While Vicky and the others were arguing in front of the invisible wall, he’d felt someone’s gaze on the back of his neck. When he turned, he spotted them in the distance, prowling through the sprawling natural expanse.

  Breaking away from his companion and the rest, he ventured into the thicket and followed.

  Juzo. That was his brother.

  The tall bushes partially obscured him, but his face was unmistakable—identical to Adam’s, save for the beard, the premature wrinkles carved by a hard life and long exile, and the brown hair glinting like strands of copper wire whenever the sunlight touched it.

  Is it you? he asked with a thought.

  The response was silence—typical Juzo.

  But how could his brother be out here, walking in the material world, and also in his mind?

  Juzo no longer had a physical body, and yet there he was, moving through the jungle, appearing and vanishing amidst the foliage as he walked. He seemed like a beacon, showing Adam the way forward, glancing back now and then to make sure he was still following.

  “Juzo!” Adam called over. “Why won’t you stop and talk to me?”

  But Juzo kept going, pushing aside ferns, skirting shrubs, and crunching leaves underfoot.

  He didn’t follow the trail cleared by Anderson’s exploration team, but Adam recognized the direction: the clearing where the Ita-Hu and the dead giant lay.

  “Come on, Juzo, stop already,” he pleaded. “Cut the mysterious crap, will you? Is this about Al Shaula? Is it about what it threatened? Answer me!”

  Maybe this really was a hallucination, the product of some hallucinogenic effect from that mix of gas and crystalline dust he’d inhaled during his encounter with that demonic specter.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Adam peeled his damp sports shirt away from his chest and shook it out, trying to get some air. The massive glass dome they were trapped in stifled airflow—and damn, was he feeling it.

  Everything in that cursed jungle seemed frozen in place, except for the mosquitoes and other insects buzzing around him.

  Logic told him the air inside would take ages to degrade, especially with all this flora, but his fears whispered otherwise: that he—along with Vicky and the three agents—would suffocate long before the radiation from the rock consumed them.

  They’d all die choking, everyone except Juzo. Because Juzo, even as he wandered the jungle, was already dead.

  Adam quickened his pace and managed to get closer. When he was about thirty feet away, in a patch where there were no more bushes to obscure his view, he finally saw him in full.

  Juzo wore a long-sleeved purple shirt tucked into black pants, his hands covered by dark gloves—a getup that made him stand out among all the green and brown. Far too elegant an outfit for such a wild place; far too elegant for someone as simple as Juzo.

  Of course, that was because the man standing there wasn’t Juzo. He looked like him, but he wasn’t. Adam realized this, and finally, he understood.

  Like puzzle pieces falling into place, everything clicked in his mind, and suddenly, what he was seeing made sense. As the flood of information ebbed, comprehension widened his eyes.

  “It’s you!” he said.

  Adam had often thought about how this encounter would play out and when it might happen—because it would happen eventually. He’d imagined a grisly ending, with himself sprawled out on a morgue table in this sinister figure’s lab, chest open and organs exposed. He’d also envisioned a scenario where he and Vicky infiltrated the villain’s lair and dramatically unmasked him—literally.

  Not once had he pictured something as tropical as this, or his own reaction being so calm.

  He didn’t feel terrified, just nervous and a little confused. What made his heart race wasn’t fear, but anticipation.

  “I remember that Friday,” Adam said. “You wore a trench coat and a work jumpsuit in these same colors. You must really like that combo.” He frowned disapprovingly. “Fashion advice? The killer-android-meets-hobo look suited you better.”

  The jungle thickened here, and Adam had to work harder to keep up.

  “But tell me something,” he added, “the Satellites, their boss, you—why is it that all the pompous lunatics visiting this jungle are dressed like they’re headed to a gala?”

  Finally, his doppelg?nger disappeared into the brush and didn’t reappear.

  He’s gonna ambush me any second now, Adam thought.

  He readied himself, sharpening his senses and scanning his surroundings. The other’s silhouette was gone, replaced only by the sight of insects flitting through sunbeams. No sound of leaves crunching or branches snapping—just birdsong and the croaking of frogs.

  “A guy who once posed in nothing but underwear alongside fashion’s biggest names,” said a voice almost identical to his own, “should know it’s tradition to dress properly for special occasions.”

  “And what’s so special about this occasion?” Adam asked, intrigued.

  “Don’t you know?” the voice replied, sounding like it came from right behind him.

  The bastard was right behind him!

  Adam clenched his fists, white fire engulfing them as he spun on his heels.

  No one was there.

  “With your speed, I’m surprised you didn’t end up under that troglodyte’s ass.”

  Adam turned again and found him, near the brush where he’d lost sight of him earlier.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Broga,” Adam identified him.

  The copper-bearded man stepped closer.

  “Put out your fire,” Broga said. “You won’t need it with me.”

  Adam intensified the flames. What kind of lunatic obeys another lunatic? He wouldn’t fire yet—it would start a battle he wasn’t sure he could win, not against Broga, and especially not with his power restrained by the looming threat of Al Shaula. But he kept his Fotias blazing as a warning: ‘Behave, and I won’t shoot.’

  Somehow, Adam knew Broga still had full access to his powers, unaffected by the Kappa radiation.

  He looked at him. They looked at each other.

  Adam and Broga, face-to-face.

  The birdsong was almost painfully loud.

  There was no denying the striking physical similarities between them. Seeing Broga up close this time, without the Cyclops mask, Adam understood why he’d mistaken him for Juzo that Friday night in the nightclub restroom—though Broga’s beard and mane were far thicker than his brother’s.

  “When did you figure out who I was?” Broga asked.

  Adam paused for a moment, searching for the answer somewhere deep inside himself.

  “I think I knew it unconsciously ever since Juzo became part of me,” he said. “Just now, when I saw you… it was like everything clicked, y’know?”

  “Interesting! Well then, put out your fire.”

  But Adam’s electric flames crackled even louder.

  “What are you doing here, Broga?”

  “I came to get you out of the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Broga replied.

  “You mean this giant fish tank?”

  “Are you in another mess?”

  Adam lowered his arms, though he kept the fire orbs active. He felt afraid—but more than that, he was intrigued.

  “Why would you do that for me?” he asked.

  “Because I can,” Broga said.

  “Nah, I don’t buy that.”

  “Because it benefits me,” Broga added.

  “Alright, that’s something I can buy into.”

  They fell silent again, and the symphony of jungle sounds rose up to fill the space their voices had left behind.

  “Look, if you doubt my intentions, we can talk it over—but somewhere less hellish,” Broga said, and unfastened the first button of his shirt. “I’ll even buy you a coffee.”

  Adam couldn’t suppress a laugh. Did he hear that right? It had to be a joke. But Broga’s expression seemed genuine; he even raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Well? Shall we?’

  “I know it’s best to humor lunatics and people who could kill you in the blink of an eye,” Adam said, “but I still have to ask—what are you planning to do with me? Are you after my blood too? Running more tests?”

  Broga’s awkward smile seemed to say, ‘You poor fool. You really don’t get it, do you?’

  “What I needed from you, I took that Friday,” Broga assured him, “after your brother transferred his proteins into your heart. Or did you think I’d let that chance pass while you were unconscious and at my mercy?”

  Adam didn’t know how to react to that. If his hands had been free, he might’ve touched the small scar on his chest, near his heart—a puncture mark that resembled a burn…

  “The Primary Plasma…” he whispered.

  No. This wasn’t the time for doubt or second-guessing.

  Broga extended his gloved hand, offering it for a handshake. “Deal?”

  “No way. I’m not that stupid,” Adam said, shaking his head while keeping his fiery spheres intact.

  “Suit yourself.” With a motion, Broga gestured for him to follow. “But come on, time’s short. I’ll show you the way out.”

  “I tried already—it’s impossible,” Adam replied.

  “Because you don’t know how. Come, I’ll show you.” Broga began walking, but Adam stayed put. “What are you waiting for?”

  A sharp whistle pierced the air, silencing the birds, followed by a small explosion that kicked up dirt and leaves near Broga’s feet.

  “Mind if I join your little hike?” Vicky appeared from the trees about twenty yards away, armed with one of the Satellites’ massive S747 rifles, ready to fire again.

  “My invitation is indefinitely postponed,” Broga said to Adam.

  The surviving members of F-Team emerged behind Vicky. Number Five rested his rifle on his shoulder, Three used his as a crutch, while Four’s hands were empty—Vicky must’ve snatched his weapon, probably because he was the least likely to protest if it meant some action.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Number Five asked Broga, more curious than confrontational.

  Broga and Adam exchanged glances.

  “I’ve come for… my younger brother here,” Broga replied.

  Clearly, none of the agents were buying it. But Adam didn’t want any trouble, so he shut down his white fire and gave his hands a shake to get rid of the static tingle.

  “Adam, step away from him!” Vicky commanded, leveling the rifle at Broga.

  Adam hesitated.

  “Adam, now!”

  He took a few steps back, and Vicky’s second shot came without delay. The rifle roared, and Broga moved his forearm with inhuman speed, blocking the bullet with his silicone-and-metal muscles. The fabric of his shirt now bore a charred hole.

  “You piece of shit!” Vicky advanced, furious. Adjusting her aim, she prepared to fire again. “Now block one with your chest—let’s see if that’s all circuits too.”

  Broga’s eyes widened; he didn’t like what he was hearing.

  “Or how about your head?” she said, shifting her aim toward the center of his forehead.

  But the S747 flew out of her hands as if an invisible force had ripped it away. It soared through the air and landed on the grass, far from her reach. Broga had unleashed an electric shockwave to disarm her from a distance.

  How had he managed to use an energy attack here, in the heart of Kappa radiation’s domain?

  Without the rifle, Vicky wrapped her fists in glowing spheres of light like boxing gloves, just as she had the first time she faced him weeks ago on Level Five of Fort Bellatrix. She lunged at him.

  It didn’t matter that her Fotias lacked destructive power; she only needed their brightness to mask her movements and throw him off.

  She opened with a flying kick, forcing him to retreat. Twisting in midair, she followed with a second kick, her heel grazing Broga’s bearded cheek. Damn it! How she hated having to wear those ugly rubber boots instead of her own. The sharp heels of her boots were one of her favorite weapons in close combat. If she’d been wearing them now, the bastard’s face would’ve been pierced and dripping with blood.

  She aimed for another kick, but Broga blocked it with his arms. Pain shot through her leg, numbing it instantly—a consequence of striking against cybernetic limbs hidden beneath the sleeves of his tailored shirt.

  Undeterred, she struck with her fists, wrapped in the fizzing light of a Fotia, and managed to land a punch. Broga earned himself a red mark on his face that would take hours to fade.

  Vicky knew her attacks had to target his face or his heart—the only vulnerable points on her opponent. She went for a third strike, but this time Broga countered, using his robotic fist as a shield. Flesh-and-blood knuckles charged with energy collided with metal-and-silicone knuckles covered in black gloves, creating a sickening crack. Vicky’s Fotias disintegrated in a flash, scattering blue sparks across the jungle.

  “Sonofabitch!” she barked. Now that her enemy was so close and without an android mask covering his face, she noticed how eerily similar he looked to Juzo. That realization was more unnerving than the pain she was feeling.

  With their fists still locked together, Broga used Vicky’s own force to push himself backward, gaining distance. She started to lunge at him again, but Broga was quicker. He extended his right hand, stopping just inches from her face.

  Broga’s black glove tore apart with a mechanical roar. His robotic fingers rose like antennae, and his palm split into several sections, revealing a laser cannon that extended to press against Vicky’s forehead.

  She held her breath. Adam, his heart sinking with fear, pleaded with her not to move, his voice trembling—a warning she had already received from Broga himself.

  Vicky looked at the gleaming barrel just inches from her eyes, and the fingers that, like tiny electrodes, crackled with energy.

  “Here...” she said, swallowing hard. “Here, no discharge can really—”

  “Yeah?” he cut her off. “Go ahead. Let’s see what happens.”