11

Logan knocked the kid out with a punch to the side of the head, right behind his ear. He went instantly limp, and Logan let him slide out of his arms and collapse to the ground next to his buddy. He’d have a headache when he woke up, but he’d be fine, which was probably an awful thing - he should kill him now, if he had any pity for these poor grunts. Did the Organization actually think any of these Humans would stand a snowman’s chance in a hell dimension against Timebomb?

If it was Timebomb. He wasn’t completely convinced of that. Yes, exploding people - and only being able to effect biological matter - that fit. But blowing up the entire body? That was new. It also didn’t explain the strange scent of the blood, or the fact that he always had to be within visual proximity to do it. It was like Timebomb, he’d give them that, but it was off in many key ways. Perhaps he was working with someone else … or maybe the “copy” had been altered somehow. Maybe his powers had been enhanced.

But the Organization would know that. So why send a bunch of homo sapien greenies out here with guns and K-bars? They were sitting ducks, cannon fodder …

Oh shit. He had to get out of here.

He heard a strange noise, farther down the canyon, but audible enough. It wasn’t exactly a “whoomp”, but it was a familiar enough noise. A teleporter.

Logan pulled the sidearm from one of the fallen soldier’s holsters, a Tec-9 that was fully loaded (even if it didn’t have much in the way of stopping power, especially from a great distance), and was torn between heading for the noise or retreating. He decided to move a safe distance from the soldiers (no need to draw attention to the unconscious, who were in no position to fight back) and try to get the notice of the teleporter. It would give him a clear shot.

He moved back down the canyon, and he heard the noise of the teleporter bouncing around the canyon. It sounded like he or she was in one spot for maybe a minute, then moved on to another spot. What were they up to?

The wind shifted, the cold air biting into his front as opposed to his back, and he caught two things almost at once, both equally disturbing. There was the scent of a person that was familiar, but familiar only to his olfactory memory, the segment of his mind that they couldn’t erase or fuck with. There was a subtle difference, but he still knew it, and he knew it enough to be disturbed. This scent, showing up now, was not good.

The second scent had a sharp chemical tang, and was familiar in a different way. This one he knew instinctively - it was the scent of plastique. Lots of plastique, because usually he couldn’t smell it until he was within fifteen feet of it; as explosives went, it didn’t smell that much. And with all the mines and various other traps in various caves …

He was about to shoot in the air to get the ‘porter’s attention when they dropped into existence on the bank across the river, almost swallowed by darkness save for their bright white and red pineapple patterned Hawaiian shirt, which seemed incongruously festive here and now. But as soon as Logan saw him, the knowledge clicked into place, the name he was searching for. “Nomad?” he asked, sure that he was dead. But that would mean this was a copy too. And Nomad could teleport all over the world; he had no limit to his abilities, as long as he had enough drugs to numb the pain.

He looked across the river at him, squinting as if he couldn’t quite make him out. He then dropped what looked like a fragmenting grenade and winked out of existence.

Yeah, he was right - these fuckers were bringing the whole canyon down.

Perhaps because he’d been recognized, the explosion started a few seconds after that. They started farther down, the boom and roar of the explosions sounding like mythical dragons, and there was no time for anything else. Logan threw himself into the river as the explosions moved in a series of ragged lines down both sides of canyon, deafening him as the air filled with deadly projectiles, splinters of rock and shards of metal. As he surfaced for air, several struck him in the side of the face, wasp stings of pain that made him taste blood as a shard ripped open his cheek, and a sliver of stone lodged in his left eye, blurring his vision. The buffeting force of the explosive concussion was trying to shove him down into the churning water, which was becoming a dangerous maelstrom in the wake of the destruction.

As he fought farther down the river, hoping to get to a clear area (it had to have an outlet beyond here), he saw a moving shadow in his vision, and looked up in time to see what looked like an entire cliff falling right towards him.

It was too fast and too large, there was no time to get away, but he dived under the water as the shadow of it blocked all the light, and he slashed out with his claws as he tried to push himself in the opposite direction, against the surging and inconstant tide. It was too big for him to cut into reasonable chunks, coming too fast to matter at any rate, but he was hoping he could get clear of it so he didn’t end up trapped beneath it.

Large chunks of rock pelted down on him, and he felt a sizable one crash into his skull, a dull but overwhelming pain that sent him sinking down into total darkness.

****

He knew the dawn was near, not just because he could smell it but because he was tired. It didn’t happen all the time, but sometimes the rising of the sun brought on a wave of exhaustion. Angel didn’t know if it was peculiar to vampires alone, or if other mainly nocturnal demons felt the same way. It wasn’t like he could take a poll.

As he got out of his car - currently a black ‘68 GTO convertible that Bren helped him buy from an auto auction (it was seized by police during a drug raid - what fun to traffic on other people’s misery, but it was still a pretty cool car) - he got the oddest sense he was being watched. He tried to look around surreptitiously as he made a show of searching his pockets, having a subtle peek at the chameleon stone in his coat pocket. It was starting to turn color, shading to a pearl pink, and he knew this was probably it.

He leaned over and popped open his glove compartment, reaching into it to pull out his cell phone. He pressed the pre-programmed button for Giles, and let it drop into the front seat. If he called but said nothing, that was the signal.

As he turned towards his apartment building, he saw a man suddenly standing in the doorway, a Maya demon with thick, gnarled skin the color of swamp grass, wearing a sleek, expensive Prada suit. He uttered something in Aramaic, and Angel suddenly found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move. “You are a persistent thorn in our side, aren’t you Angel? We haven’t been properly introduced, I’m Grth Mr’the, head of Mystical Defense for Wolfram and Hart. You may not know me, but I know all about you.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he growled, barely able to talk. This was a pretty sturdy spell.

The natty demon looked at him with bright violet eyes, sizing him up as if for a prison jumpsuit. “You’d be wrong, I’m afraid. You should see the dossier we have on you; it takes up its own file cabinet. And threatening one of our clients? That’s hardly new for you, but it’s especially stupid in this case. As it is, you got lucky. Our client heard about it, and he’s such a forgiving man, he wants to meet you. How’s your schedule?”

He glared at him, not quite believing he was going through with this charade. “Busy.”

“Too bad!” Mr’the said cheerfully. “He’s ready to meet you right this second. Shall we go?”

It wasn’t really a question, and he knew it, which is why he was gloating. So yes, this was it - the plan was working perfectly.

Now he hoped everyone was ready.

12

Logan wasn’t sure where he was at first. He was in a dark place, somewhere that light had never reached, and he got up and staggered forward, hoping it was the right direction, figuring it was as good as any. His senses seemed to have abandoned him.

Except now he felt a limit to the darkness, a smoothness, and he traced his hand along it until he found a seam - a door. He opened it, expecting to be temporarily blinded by bright light …

… but it didn’t happen. He was just suddenly inside a nice wood paneled office, window open to a bright afternoon sun, A man with pale ginger hair sat behind a desk in a grand leather chair, cleaning his hands with a Handi-Wipe. Standing in front of the desk was Faith, although younger perhaps, her hair slightly wavy and a bit longer than it was now. She was wearing a black leather jacket and matching pants, with a red tank top so tight you could make out the contours of her bra (which was also clearly lace).

He just stood at the side of the room, wondering what they were talking about - the man, who talked with a perpetually amused voice, apparently wanted her to go get something - when Faith noticed him, and blanched; he could actually see the blood draining from her face. And since her lipstick was a bright hard red, a crimson smear like blood on her mouth, it made her look that much more pale. “What the - Logan, you can’t be here,” she insisted, dark eyes wide in horror. She stomped over to him and grabbed his arm, hard enough that he was sure she’d leave a bruise (well, for a few seconds). She tried to hustle him towards the door, but he held his ground and turned her towards him.

“Why? What’s going on?”

She glared at him in open exasperation. “I didn’t know you now - then. Whatever! Just g-”

“This is the Mayor, huh?” He looked back at the soft featured man, who seemed to have simply frozen in place behind his desk. “I thought he’d look more evil. He just looks like a minor bureaucrat. They never look as evil as you think they should, do they?”

“Don’t do this. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you to see this!”

Was he actually here? Obviously not in this time or place, but in this … memory? No, dream. Faith was dreaming, and he’d just walked in. How the hell could he do that?

Oh shit, the Bob power again. It allowed him to “astral project” once, didn’t it? Maybe he did it again. He was dying the time he did it that first time, right? That made sense, in a strange way. It was like a death spasm on the psychic plane. He puts his hands on her forearms, and stepped closer to her, close enough to feel her warmth. “Faith, I - “

She stepped back and shrugged his hands off. “I can’t deal with this now, okay? I mean you know, that’s bad enough, but you don’t need to be a part of it.” She ran a hand through her dark hair, catching strands in the zippers on the sleeve of her coat. “It was hard enough to say it! I can’t just -”

He grabbed her and kissed her. It took care of two problems at once, namely it shut her up for a minute, and could point out exactly what he was trying to tell her.

She was surprised enough that she didn’t immediately push him away. It was a few seconds before she did that, wiping her forearm across her mouth but miraculously not smearing her lipstick. “Man, could you shave for me sometime? I mean the beard burn is sexy sometimes, but -” she paused suddenly, staring at him in shock. She stepped closer to him and felt his arms, squeezing them as if to make sure all the muscles were in the same place. “Hey, are you actually here?”

He nodded. “I think I can explain -”

“Wow, I thought it was just a Slayer to Slayer deelio,” she said, letting him go. “I didn’t know that it could work that way with anyone else.”

“Huh? I was gonna say I think the Bob power - the powers Bob left me - are responsible for this. Have you had semi-telepathic interludes before?”

“Uh, no, not exactly. Look, if you’re doing this, can we get outta here?”

His timing was terrible. It was bad enough that he walked into her dream, but it was a recollection of a bad memory, of something that still shamed and haunted her. She might lose a little in trust him after this, especially since he’d just copped to being responsible for this inadvertent invasion of privacy. Couldn't he sympathize? He had almost nothing but bad memories. "Sure."

He didn't know how to do this, so he just trusted his gut. Bob seemed to have no problem doing anything, so he just assumed that it was all easy - just think of the place he wanted to be, and he'd be there. So he did, and it seemed to work. As far as he could tell, you could over-think Bob's powers. They seemed to function as a feeling, not so much a thought.

Faith was with him, of course, and she looked around in surprise at their new surroundings. It was dark and dank, but the smell of water was overwhelmed by the scent of burnt metal, blood, and chemicals. The only available light was focused on a large Plexiglas tank in the center of the room, in which a man was bound to the bottom of the coffin like container filled with slightly greenish tinged water. Two men in "clean" (HazMat) suits were on either side of the tank, one picking up the largest, most hideously Frankenstein like hypodermic needle from a tray of equally horrific and cruel surgical implements. His heart skipped several beats and started racing, he could taste bile in his mouth he was so terrified to be here again. But he couldn't look away; it wouldn't do any good anyway, as he knew this bit, he knew what happened here.

"What the hell is this place?" Faith gasped.

"This is where I died. It seemed only fair that if I walked in on you and the Mayor that you got to see this." And if anyone on Earth could possibly understand this, it was her.

If the men in the suits looked down at the tank instead of at their monitors, they would have seen a dark cloud of blood in the water. He tore most of the skin off his right hand from the wrist down, degloved it to use the coroner's term, but he had freed one hand from the restraints. He only needed to free one hand to get out.

Faith grabbed his arm and glanced at him, but he was too riveted on the scene - on what he knew was about to happen - to look at her. "You mean ... this is that Weapon X place, right?"

"Right. And I'm about to break loose and kill them all." He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat that could have been vomit, or hate. Both perhaps; he wasn't sure. "I'm gonna tell you a secret, Faith, something I've never told anyone. I know I have this reputation as a tough guy - I go out of my way to cultivate it - but I've been broken so many times I can't fit the pieces back together anymore. It was before this, right before this, that I realized I was a copy of a copy of a copy; I was a shadow of the man who used to exist. I don't know who the real Logan is. I have reason to suspect he was a decent man, flawed perhaps, but basically honorable, trying to fit in with people he knew he couldn't really fit in with. He wanted to do right, but somehow it all led him to here, to this moment in a military torture chamber. And with that realization, that I wasn't really a man, just some random parts slapped together, I gave into it."

The man with the needle bent over the tank. Here it came.

"Gave into what?" she asked, her voiced hushed as if she realized this really was a solemn occasion.

"Madness. See, it was always with me - they erased my memories and then tried to build me back up, but something was always wrong. Maybe it was the contradictory orders, the conflict of what they wanted with what they had to do to get me there, or maybe it was the fact that my mind was fucked to begin with. I had nervous breakdowns before they even started fucking with my head; something in me shattered long before they decided to start doing it as a hobby."

The man in the tank broke through the suffocating chemical soup like a maniac in a horror movie and grabbed the man with the needle around the neck. He was letting out an angry scream, but it was tinged with pain; an animal who had been hurt and didn't know why, didn't understand why it was being tormented yet wanted it to stop. It wasn't a sane noise; it was incoherent and hard to listen to. The man tried to squirm free, tried to jab him with the needle, but he ripped it out of his hand and jammed it in the eye of the second man who was trying to help his co-worker, ramming it through the protective faceplate as if it was made of nothing more than plastic wrap. He stumbled back, grabbing for the needle before the sedatives sent him falling back into a tray of instruments, knocking them down with a loud clatter. The man slid to the floor and started convulsing, as he started dying in horrific spasms - those drugs were calibrated for him, for his buggery healing factor. Th! ere was a big enough dose in that needle to kill a dozen normal men.

"It was a choice, Faith, one I made before I got here. I decided to stop trying to hold on to myself, to sanity. It wasn't worth fighting anymore. These people ... they knew me, they knew what they had programmed into me. I could never fight them in a way that they couldn't anticipate. Except this, this last vestige of my real self, the real Logan. The madness that had always dwelled in him, the one thing they couldn't predict, contain, or control. Even telepaths couldn't touch that part of my mind; they didn't want to. They couldn't take it, and they couldn't do anything with it even if they could. And I knew that was my only chance to get free: to lose myself, the self I thought I always was, and give in to this howling madness. I knew I might never come back, but ... but I was in so much despair I didn't care anymore. I didn't care if I never came back. So I let the beast go."

The first man in the HazMat suit had groped blindly for a weapon, and came up with a scalpel he jabbed in his midsection, sticking it into his gut to the point where the blade melded with the handle. This Logan - the one with empty eyes glowing with inchoate rage and a consumptive insanity, the brain behind them no longer tethered to this world or anything remotely like it - hardly even noticed. He simply twisted the man's neck, hard and fast, and it snapped with a gunshot report, seemingly echoing in this dark and dreary space. As the body dropped, he ripped out the scalpel as though picking off a tick, throwing it aside as blood welled in the hole, trickled down his abdomen, and he kicked out and shattered the tank, the green water spewing out over the floor as a loud emergency klaxon began screaming through the base. He stepped out on the concrete floor, naked and dripping chemicals and blood, the wires from the probes and monitor leads trailing from his skin like limp! tentacles before he reached around and yanked them free in spurts of blood, ripping more of his own skin off with them and not caring, so far beyond pain it didn‘t matter anymore. From the look on his face, a mad dog snarl that bared his teeth, only the noise made him more angry

Logan finally turned away, rubbing his eyes so he didn't have to look at that ... thing, the thing that was the honest him, the real him, the only part of the real Logan that still existed. "I really don't remember much beyond this. The thing about being insane is that sometimes the memories don't stick well. I guess that's the one comfort."

She was quiet for a very long time, as the scene looped back to the beginning and started again. It had to, as he had so few memories beyond this. Escaping the complex he vaguely remembered, and waking up in the snow, freezing and hurt and not sure who he was or what had happened to him, but terrified that something was coming for him and aware he couldn‘t afford to be caught (again). Feeling a strange pain in his hands and being horrified by the knives that seemed to be a part of him, something tied in his muscles and welded to his bones. Aware, even though he couldn't completely place the feeling, that he was a monster, and that he would always be a monster, and that maybe - worst of all - it was his fault. "Why are you telling me this?" she finally asked.

"Because you deserve to know what I really am. It's not ... I'm not ... we all have things we're ashamed of, Faith. But take some comfort in the fact that you're not ashamed of what you really are."

She touched his arm, and he had to suppress the urge to pull away from her. His skin crawled, his gut roiled, and he wasn’t sure he should be near her right now. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea he’d ever had. But that was okay; maybe she wanted nothing to do with him anymore, That would probably be for the best if he was dying; it would make it easier. “Get us out of here,” she said, and then turned him towards her and kissed him passionately, almost violently. He actually stumbled, and if she hadn’t been holding on to his arms with her Slayer strength, he’d probably have fallen flat on his ass.

He simply imagined they were back at her place, and they were, his back slamming against the kitchen counter as she pressed against him. She broke away from him before they both started to suffocate, and his mind was reeling, as there couldn’t have been a more drastic shift in circumstances. “Uh, what brought -”

“Shut up,” she said, pulling his shirt up over his head.

Yeah, okay, he could do that.

He still had no idea what brought this on, but he didn’t really care. They tore off each others clothes with amazing rapidity and fell into her bed kissing and grasping for each other like they were the last two people on Earth. They were hardly ever sedate, but they made love almost furiously; he was glad they both healed fast, because this might leave them bruised otherwise.

Not that he actually thought about it until afterwards, when they were both laying next to each other on the bed, gasping for breath. Yes, it was definitely sex, but it was also something of a workout. “Okay, now can I ask what brought that on? Not that I’m complaining.”

She propped herself up on his chest, looking down into his face, her hair a dark veil concealing them from the rest of the world. “Are you kidding? A macho guy getting all vulnerable and shit? Catnip to the ladies, Logan. Come on, you know that. Also, you trust me; kind of a turn on. I mean, who trusts me? Angel, and … well, I’ll get back to you. Not that I blame ‘em, but …”

“You can have my back any time.”

That made her smile. “I know. Oh, and what you were saying about not being the real Logan? Total bullshit.” He took a breath to say something, but she put a finger on his lips, and continued. “Have you ever considered that maybe that’s exactly what they want you to think? That the old you’s been obliterated, and what’s left is some bugfuck nutball? That works pretty well for them, doesn’t it? They can still sabotage you even when they don’t have you around to play with. And even if they didn’t fuck with your head, you still wouldn’t be the “original” Logan. How could you be? People are the sum of their experience, right? And you’re closer to Angel’s age than mine. So all those experiences would make you a different person than you were then, unless you were rock stupid and never learned a damn thing. But don’t even try to play that card, you Canadian James Bond motherfucker.”

That made him chuckle, like she knew it would. She did have some good points though. “Don’t tell me you have a degree in philosophy too.”

“Can you get a degree in philosophy?”

“Apparently; I know a guy who got one.”

She looked skeptical. “Seriously? So what the hell does he do with that? Teach more philosophy?”

“No, he’s a mercenary.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. His name’s Marcus, I’ll introduce you someday. I think you’ll like him. Be warned, though, he’ll probably try and get in your pants.” He stroked her back idly, savoring the softness of her skin, the salt taste of her sweat still on his lips.

She nestled her head against his chest, as if listening to his heartbeat, stroking his stomach gently. Was it coincidence, or was she stroking the spot where he got stabbed with the scalpel? It was still mildly arousing, in spite of the connotations. “You know, everybody breaks; everybody has a breaking point. That’s not really important. It’s the coming back from it that matters.” She paused briefly. “Or so Angel told me anyways.”

“And you know how full of shit he is,” he joked, and they both had a good chuckle at that. “Damn, why couldn’t I have met you a couple of years ago?”

She frowned, but her eyes were still bright with mischief. “Uh, I think I was still in my crazy old super villain days myself. Or maybe in prison; I’m not really sure.”

“We should probably just run off to Vegas and get hitched.”

“Are you kidding me? I tried the settling down thing once - well, no marriage, but living together, which is almost the same thing - and I totally hated it. I mean, I suck at this togetherness crap. I ain’t getting married until I’m, I dunno, sixty, when my boobs are sagging down to my knees.”

In spite of himself, he laughed, and she laughed too, although she calmed down to a wide, infectious grin pretty quickly. “Well, come on! I might be a Slayer, but I’m not immune to gravity. Hey, you’ll be around then, right? You can be my young stud. Okay younger looking stud.”

“Can I live in the pool house?”

“Hell yeah. Granny’s gonna need some sexual healing once her hip gets replaced.” They both cracked up, the mental picture of it just too much to bear with a straight face. As they laughed, they instinctively held on to each other, Faith snuggling into his arms. They were so much alike in so many ways it was genuinely frightening; there’s no way this could last. But god, wasn’t it fun?

“Why don’t you show me your place?” she wondered. “I mean you got one, right?”

“Well, it’s Bob‘s, but he gave it to me.”

“So let’s see it already.”

He thought about it, and just like that they were there, in his cabin in the British Columbian woods. She sat up and looked at the soft cerulean walls, which were only interrupted by a couple of small black metal shelves and a framed Monet print (“Waterloo Bridge, Soleil Voilé" a/k/a “Waterloo Bridge, Hazy Sun“) that he was afraid might be the actual painting and not a faithful reproduction. (Knowing Bob, it was possible.) She wrapped the top sheet around herself as she got up, and walked to the window, opening the strangely light blue velvet drapes, revealing the conifer forest just beyond the boundaries of the cabin. Even from here he could see their tops, a tightly grouped collection of ornate, giant green spears reaching for the high blue sky. “Wow, what a view.” After a moment she turned to face him, smiling like a kid who knows they’re about to do something naughty. “You really are in the middle of fucking nowhere, ain’t cha? Do you know how crazy with boredo! m I’d be if we actually did come here?”

“I’m sure I could keep you busy.”

“Yeah, I bet you could, you letch,” she teased.

The sunlight was softer here than in Los Angeles, almost languorous, but it made her mussed dark chestnut hair shine, and lit her face as gently as a mythical angel. Even wearing an indigo bed sheet, she made it somehow look sexy, the curve of her hip and the side swell of her breast just barely hinted at beneath the cotton. She gave him a suspicious look, and asked, “What are you smiling at?”

Was he? He hadn’t realized. “You’re beautiful,” he told her honestly.

She shook her head, grimacing in humor. “Now I know you’re trying for seconds.”

“Don’t make a joke of it. You are.”

She glanced at him almost sheepishly, her eyes meeting his, and he realized that there was a huge danger of their fling becoming something more. Maybe it was a good thing he was dying, although it was hard to picture drowning in a polluted river because you’re trapped under a big rock as ever a good thing.

Suddenly she looked to the side, expressing changing to consternation. “What is it?” he wondered, sitting up. He didn’t see or hear anything.

“I think someone’s wa -”

And just like that she seemed to blink out of existence. He could finish the sentence for her in spite of that: I think someone’s waking me up. A shame, but he knew this couldn’t go on forever anyways, no matter how much it seemed like heaven.

He dry washed his face and wondered if he had to come back to awareness now, or if he never actually would. He didn’t know how it worked, especially not as an avatar.

That was when he heard a noise in the living room.

He got off the bed and went out, curious but not really alarmed. After all, this was his mind, right? He knew all the horrors that lurked here, he’d faced each and every one, and while they scared the shit out of him, they hadn’t beaten him yet.

But he knew there was something wrong before he padded out into the room, only to see a glow like a fire. But it wasn’t a fire. It was Jean, standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a fiery aura of translucent energy that he could feel crisping the hair on his arms. She stared at him with fiery eyes that had a dazed sort of vacancy in them, and asked with great curiosity, “Where have I gone?”

****

Ali had lived through several bombings in her life, one earthquake, and a genuine carpet bombing. But this was still the biggest, scariest explosion she’d ever witnessed.

She was trying to figure out if the coast was clear, if she could go back into the canyon without being spotted by the weird guy. And he was weird; this whole set up was weird. All the journalists she’d met were nerdy guys, kind of soft or wiry, usually loaded down with cassette recorders and cameras. Not only did this guy have none, but - and this was by far the most suspicious of all - he’d taken a beating, and hadn’t a bruise to show for it. He wasn’t even spitting up blood - no fucking way! When the gang stomped you down, you were stomped. Weird guy seemed to shake it off like a dog shook off the rain.

And come to think of it, how’d he get untied?

Something was going on here, and she wanted in. If there was money to be made here, she’d find it, even if it got too dangerous and she had to turn it over to Amir. Because really, she didn’t want to anger the others.

But then there was a “boom”, and the ground shook, and for a second she thought it was another earthquake, but then there was another explosion, and another, smoke vomiting from the canyon as the explosions continued, grew louder and closer together, and she dropped to the ground and covered her head, figuring someone had decided to call an air strike on the canyon. But she never saw any planes, nor saw any payloads deployed; all she saw was the canyon dissolving into smoke and debris, the whole thing collapsing in on itself like an unstable tower block.

Her ears felt popped long after the explosions stopped and new smoke ceased rising from the canyon. It wasn’t so much a canyon now as just a jagged rip in the ground with lots of rocky chunks in it. Curiosity got the better of her, and she headed towards the new edge, about twenty meters in from where it used to be, coughing as she breathed in rock dust.

The river was there, now clogged up with debris the size of cars, and she figured the people down river were in for a sudden and terrible flood. But maybe they didn’t have to worry about the others anymore - if they were here, they were dead, buried under a ton of rock.

Something strange caught her eye, and she saw a glimpse of pale green near a collection of huge slabs of rock, one that probably used to be a cliff.  It was a body floating face down in the river, snagged on the rocks.

Holy shit, it was the weird guy.