Somewhere in the Eastern Sector of Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Looking down from above, Serenity Valley is impressively long and winding. Wearing a thick lush coat of century old pine trees, the valley was virtually untouched by human presence for decades after terraforming took. It was only when prospectors found a large deposit of nickel and copper near the western exit of the valley that the settlers of Hera turned their attentions to this tranquil dale. Soon after the initial establishment of the mining town of Emerald Glen, loggers began to clear away the trees to the east to fuel the development of the town and to create land for local farms.

For a few decades, Emerald Glen prospered as the demand for raw material skyrocketed in the Core Planets. Loggers continued to fell trees to make way for farmland, and a small scale space launch site was built against a near vertical cliff on the other side of the mountain, an effort made by the local officials to increase the frequency of ore deliveries to the Core.

And then, the raw ore market took a nosedive when an Alliance Dreadnought warship sent multiple megaton nuclear warheads and an experimental gigaton nuclear weapon into an asteroid on a near collision course with Planet Sihnon. The asteroid was blasted into pieces, and a brilliant and mostly harmless meteor shower graced the inhabitants of Sihnon that night. The remaining pieces of the asteroid flew off into deep space, all except the nickel-iron core that embedded itself on the uninhabitable moon that orbited Sihnon. The moon soon became a hotbed of mining activity, giving the Core Planets enough nickel and iron ore to last decades.

As a result, half of Emerald Glen shut down, and the forestry clearing stopped, never to begin again. Copper ore demand was still stable, and the town continued its operations until an astronomer on Whitefall discovered Higgin’s Moon, a minor planet on a 60 year elliptical orbit that trailed from the outer edge of the Core to beyond the edge of the solar system. Prospector teams from Planet Santo intercepted the moon, and found a wealth of ores, copper included. The Core Planets then mounted a massive settlement project, and within a year Higgin’s Moon became the primary source of ore for the Core just as the minor planet was starting its orbit near the Core.

Thus, all of Emerald Glen shut down, and the population trickled down. The Valley was cleared of forests to about 20 kilometers in, and the remaining 30 kilometers of the Valley to the east remained as thickly forested as since the initial terraforming. The buzz of a chainsaw had not been heard for many decades by the sparse inhabitants of the Valley, but it is with this high pitch buzz whining in his ear that General Scott Beck of the 33rd Armored Regiment spoke to Lt. Ellis of the Southern Frontline HQ.

“GPS puts us about a klick from their flank. At the rate we are going, we are going to get there in a few hours. However, my men are tired, and without intel on their base layout, attacking after sunset is not an appealing idea to me. Now, I respect Colonel Donovan and his experiences in defensive warfare against the Alliance, but I am the offensive General here, and attacking at dawn will be better for my men and just as demoralizing as a night assault.”

At the other end of the line, Ellis stifled a sigh, and gave his assignment one last attempt. “Right, General, but the Alliance is mobilizing on our Western Flank, and it is very likely that they will complete their mobilization tonight, and push out with a two-pronged attack tomorrow morning. They have been known to do this time and again. It is of Colonel Donovan’s opinion that a night assault will catch the Alliance at their most disorganized, and we wouldn’t run the danger of having them catch us off guard with a night attack of their own.”

General Beck gave short barking laugh, almost delighted in the idea of the Alliance attacking the 142nd PDF first. “Then we will catch them from behind, and crush them as between a hammer and an anvil!”

The sound of delight was carried quite the distance from the phone receiver in Ellis’s hand, and the nearby Corporal Hunter looked at Ellis with an empathetic wince. The Lieutenant did finally let loose that repressed sigh. “Yes General, I will inform Colonel Donovan of your plans. Best of luck out there.”

“Cheer up, Lieutenant. We will sweep the Alliance off of their feet tomorrow; just make ready to intercept any deserters that head your way. General Beck out.” Handing the phone to a waiting Corporal, General Beck looked up and down the line, for the entire four thousand infantry soldiers, two hundred M551 Sheridan light tanks, and the four hundred odd support and armored personnel carriers traveled in a line, along a path slowly being cleared by the teams of loggers at the head of the line through the dense forest.

The going had been tough; drudging through the thickly forested valley has been slow and stifling to say the least, but the servicemen and women of the 33rd Armored has behaved and performed admirably. General Beck smiled, hearing another pine tree creak and watching as it fell to the side, allowing for another few feet of advancement. But this will all be worth it, to see the shock on the Alliance forces as the 33rd Armored appear like phantoms and strike like lightning through their always inadequately defended flanks!

General Beck’s smile grew, baring his teeth. Oh such a glorious sight it will be, such a crushing victory awaits, to send the Alliance running with tails between their legs!

---

Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

The white light, pouring out of the high intensity LED bulbs that dotted the ceiling and reflecting off of the pearly walls, assaulted Brigadier General Lucas Weir’s open eyes. It was the presence of the entire visible spectrums, a symbolic representation of all-inclusiveness of the perceivable Universe, and a sharp contrast to all-consuming black void of his eyes. Cloaked in white, all things came to him, flying like strings whirling down a drain. Time flew, not straight, but in a curved fashion, bending and waving and snapping for his limited attention.

Spaced out in a table in front of him were pictures of Brown Coat officers known to be stationed on Planet Hera. Mug shots, profile shots, and even pixilated top-down spy satellite photos of those suspected to be in charge of Serenity Valley and Serenity Base were placed closest to Weir, whose glossed over pupils jumped wildly in its rapid movements.

From each picture Weir saw a line, a warping string of Time that was at once pulled by Weir and pulling on him. The white light helped him see the strings, follow them into twisted labyrinths of endless cycles, and pierce the veil of Time to gaze at what could come. Or so he believed, at the very least. The scientists at the Academy had tested his claim rigorously, all at his own painful expense, but concluded that it could only be a placebo effect. They had told him so, in clear and precise words, but the placebo effect persisted; he could always see clearer when there was white. Could it even be called placebo effect then? Or perhaps he still believed in the virtues of the white light, regardless of his acknowledgement that it is merely a placebo, and it is that belief which granted the virtual construct its manifested powers.

In Weir’s mind, the white light kept him wrapped him in a blanket of warmth, damping the pain and strengthening his resolve, to take the plunge that Time was sadistically waiting for. Picking out one string, Weir plunged and was pulled into the plunge, dragging along and was dragged along, into a cracked mosaic world of flickering strobe lights and flashing images. All the while, the rest of Time pulled on and was pulled by Weir, rescuing the plunged and resisting the plunging; ripping, tearing, and shredding away the protective cloak, until at last they latched onto the vulnerable psyche of a scarred boy, and pulled.

Weir opened his mouth and screamed silently, his back arching as his muscles entered the state of tetanus. His eyes shot skyward, looking directly at the white light even as his body and mind stretched his eyelids to the utmost and the entirety of the visible spectrum rushed in to shatter the cracked mosaic and to unbend the string of Time, if only for a brief second. And in that second, in a vision of a blinding flash, Weir saw.

---

Alliance Military Vessel Venus, Cruiser-class, high orbit around Planet Hera

“Heart rate and blood pressure increasing, within standard perimeters; SRP-72 is entering trance state.” One of the two scientists stared at his split-screen monitor, watching numbers and lines fluctuate.

“Core temperature rising, increased brain activity, and beginning rapid eye movements; he is in hypnopompic state.” The other scientist monitored a different set of graphs and charts, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Beginning MRI of the brain.”

“Core temperature dropping; convulsions are starting.” The first scientist switched his monitor over to a security camera view on the subject, and frowned. “Is he screaming?”

The second scientist rolled his chair over, and put on the headphones. “No, there is no sound coming from the subject. Behavior is within established norms.”

The first scientist had taken over the second scientist’s station, and was examining the neuroimaging results. “Synapse firing on track. Full neocortex activation expected within ten seconds.”

“Tetanus reached, and screaming posture maintained.” The second scientist continued to listen through the headphones. “Still no sound, the subject is behaving normally. It might be a new behavioral response; time noted. We will need to find the trigger.”

“Neocortex has been fully activated. Heart rate, blood pressure, and core temperature are plummeting.” A few keystrokes by the first scientist brought up similar looking graphs saved on the hard drive. “The rate of decrease is slightly faster than previous records; noting the change.”

“Syncope achieved; starting six minute countdown. Total length of episode was ten minutes and forty seven seconds.” The second scientist removed his headphones. “It was shorter than before. We will need to go back and time each phase.”

“You want me to inform the Academy, or do you want to?” The first scientist took off his glasses, his hands rubbing his eyes.

“I can do it. You should contact the General.” The second scientist stood up and stretched.

Both scientists returned to their respective stations, and the sound of keystrokes echoed in the room.

---

On route to Emerald Glen, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Corporal Alexander Treadwell sat in the truck bed of a near-derelict army truck, along with five other members of his new squad. Private First Class Lucas Richardson sat directly opposite of Treadwell, cradling his grenade launcher as he gazed ahead. Private Jacob Fillion and PFC Nathan White were next to Richardson, one carrying a large satchel of mortar rounds while the other laid the barrel and the base plate across his lap. PVT Miguel Chandler and PFC Kevin Harris had their RPG launchers propped up in an upright position, knuckles white as they wrapped their hand around the tube in an iron grip.

Treadwell felt his stomach lurch again as the right front tire of the truck sank into a pothole, the rusted the skeleton of the vehicle groaned audibly in protest. The driver could be heard cursing even as he shifted gears and floored the pedal. The truck tires grinded against the loose gravel, sending a cloud of yellow dust into the air, while the engine hummed loudly. There was a second lurch; the engine went into a coughing fit, and the exhaust vomited black smoke, but the trapped tire was inching its way out of the pothole.

The driver gave one last yell of encouragement, a bang on the dashboard for good measure, and the truck was free, back on the dirt and gravel road that at least promised equal retribution to the Alliance, should they push past Emerald Glen and moved to strike the Frontline HQ.

“Oh god…I think I am going to be sick” Private Jacob Fillion grumbled, his face turning paler by the second.

“Hang in there, trooper.” Treadwell spared PVT Fillion a sympathetic glance before turning his eyes back to the line of brown buildings appearing ahead.

---

Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Two men walked side by side, identical black leather soles clicking softly as they moved across the black tarmac. Black shades masked their eyes, and large black suit coats hid their form from the not-so-covert glances sent their way by the population of the command base. The only distinguishing feature of the duo was the gloves that they wore; one had pair of sky blue gloves, while the other wore a white pair. Overhead, the Aether Transporter hummed as it ascended into the atmosphere, blasting the surface with a wave of hot air that made the refuel staff grimace with discomfort.

Unlike the last time an Aether Transporter made a reentry trip, there was no contingent of staff officers waiting to greet this duo of high ranking officials. Instead, the pair walked off the airfield and into the base unmolested. Security personnel only need one swipe of their Ident Cards before wanting to flee to their barracks for stopping operatives of the Parliament. Before long, the rumor mill spread the news of two men in black in commission with Parliamentary Override throughout the base, leaving the duo to walk to their destination in relative peace.

---

Emerald Glen, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Corporal Treadwell grabbed his grenade launcher with his left hand, placed his right hand on the rail, and vaulted over the truck bed barriers. His iron-plated army boots landed on the loose gravel with a crunch, and the rest of his squad began to unload the ammo loaded on the truck. Around him the six other trucks were disgorging their own passengers, and Treadwell took a moment to study the town that they will most likely die defending.

The town looked odd, Treadwell decided. It was too desolate, too empty. There were no potato runners about, fast little sprinters that carried rations between squads entrenched in separate houses. There were no honking of Jeeps, kicking up dust along this gravel road in plain daylight because some rear echelon staff officers thought themselves invincible to bullet and shrapnel. There were even no loud voices, no catcalling between squads and no lame jokes being flung by bored privates huddling by windows.

The town did not feel like the frontline of an upcoming battle.

It felt like a ghost town.

“Where’s the tumbleweed?” A soft chuckle came from PFC White, while his mortar team partner PVT Fillion dry heaved.

“At least this means there will be ample accommodations. Maybe they will even put us up in a hotel.” PVT Chandler was reaching up to receive a box of ammo from PFC Harris. White turned to shoulder a crate from Richardson.

“I much rather they put us in an underground bunker; six inches of steel plating between us and the Alliance.” Harris dropped three from crates on Chandler, and then vaulted off the truck himself.

“That’s not enough.” Treadwell strapped his grenade launcher over his shoulder, and grabbed two crates from Chandler. “They will blow right through it.”

“They will?” Harris took a crate from Chandler.

“So you haven’t met them yet. Where were you stationed?” Richardson came off the truck, carrying the last crate of ammo under his armpit.

“Fort Magellan, on the continent to the East; they glassed us from above. I was lucky to get out on that ferry.” Harris spoke, his voice wistful.

“Well, you are in for a surprise. Those Alliance frakers, they know how to make it hot.” White walked over, patting Harris on the shoulder.

“A new weapon? Flamethrower?” Incendiary rounds?”

“Worse.” Fillion finally joined the rest of the squad, his face less pale than before. “It’s a laser tank.”

“More like a monstrosity straight out of science fiction.” Chandler lit a cigarette.

“You see the white light, and then you die.” White borrowed Chandler’s lit lighter to light his own cigarette. “If you think about it, it really should be the other way around.”

“Well, frak.” Harris joined the smokers.

White chuckled. “And that’s the example of an understatement, ladies and gentles.”

---

Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Colonel Vincent looked at the officer who had just handed him a report with a frown. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

The officer nodded. “I debriefed the guards myself, and checked the electronic records. This is legitimate.”

The Colonel turned to General Jarvis Lawrence. “Sir, we have two agents of the Parliament onsite, with full access Parliamentary Override. I was not notified of their arrival until just now.”

“And nor was I.” The general was leaning against a holographic table, depicting a mechanized battalion on the western entrance into Serenity Valley. “Check in with secure communications, see if they got a message that was bounced to us from the fleet.” A few words muttered under the breath, and the general spoke up again. “And have whoever is in command of the 42nd Mechanized to get them moving. Lieutenant Colonel Jay was a fool to think he could survive on a frontline battlefield, with his complete lack of field experience, but we should at least put his firepower to use, before they get turned into scrap metal by standing still and inviting an artillery strike.”

Colonel Vincent nodded and walked away, grabbing an officer as he went to delegate some of his tasks. General Lawrence shifted the view on the holographic table, now looking over at the Independent southern frontline.

---

Western Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

The house was a wooden shack, a simple single floored bedroom with an integrated kitchen and plenty of windows for natural lighting. The room was not big, but it was luxurious by military standards, even when the dozen of surviving Sergeants pile into the room for strategic debriefing. For now, he has the room to himself, the first rest he has gotten since the brilliantly-conceived but poorly-executed defense at the mouth of the Valley earlier in the week.

That defense had claimed the lives of around a hundred men, of which there were a disproportionately large number of officers. The enemy was dropping paratroopers, their typical reconnaissance protocol following a round of satellite and aerial surveillance. FieldOps had managed to spot the dropships using a high-power telescope, and passed the telemetry data over to Frontline HQ. There, the plan was hatched to ambush the paratroopers at their landing zone, simple and elegant, if only.

True to their nickname, F-ed Up failed to spot the second wave of dropships that departed shortly after the first wave, and so it was those ambushing that became the ambushed, and the trap at the landing zone turned into a clusterfuck. The most devastating losses suffered during the mess was inflicted by the Alliance sniper teams in the second wave that managed to slip away to the high ground, and then Independent Officers started dropping one by one until counter-snipers finally silenced those lethal guns. All the while, the two companies assigned to the ambush mission were caught between two walls of bullets, and people started dying by the dozens. They were lucky to have the terrain advantage, being on top of a hill that crested between a flat farmland and a dried out riverbed that served as the LZ for the enemy, which prevented the paratroopers from overrunning their position. The Brown Coat NCOs led their squads on an ordered retreat, constantly repelling the harrying squads sent by the reconnaissance companies to probe the retreating line.

The hill turned into mountain, and the fertile soil gave way to hard gravel. There, in a long, thin line that took advantage of every rock and sapling, the Brown Coats dug in, sparse ammunition redistributed among the survivors. With grim determination, the battle weary men assented to their leader’s – his – command to hold their position at all cost. Further down the hill, the parachute units organized and readied a steady infantry advance, to overwhelm their less numerous enemies with sheer volume of fire. Up the mountain they advanced, and to their surprise, found a hardened foe that would not lie down, and the harsh report of gun fire echoed in the air once more.

Blood soaked the mountain that day, both sides fighting with their backs figuratively or literally backed into a corner. Though lacking heavy weaponry, the Alliance forces were supplied with an abundance of ammunition, and could maintain a loud and continuous suppressing fire while slowly creeping up the mountain. On the Independent side, bullets became as precious as blood, and to some, even more so. Some risked life and limb to ensure their bullet claimed a life, while others huddled deeper into the small foxholes they had dug. They were growing desperate, and then the last bullet was fired, a singularly unimpressive crack from an NCO’s service pistol. Afterwards, the only sound that could be heard along the Brown Coat line was faint prayers.

Then, through the clouds the Angels appeared, their silvery bodies glistening with reflected sunlight. With a long shriek of hateful vengeance, the Angels descended upon the battlefield, and from their underbelly came a rain of fire and death. Anti-personnel shrapnel missiles shredded entire squads in the blink of an eye, and armor piercing rounds riddled the brave or slow individuals that did not find cover in time. In one flyover the Alliance advance was broken, and in the next the Angels reaped divine retribution upon paratroopers for the blood of free men that was forcibly shed that day.

The remnants of the two Independent companies hauled themselves out of what cover they had dug, and charged into the Alliance troopers that were still standing. Without any ammo, the fight was close and personal. Most Brown Coats took the first opportunity to pick up an Alliance weapon, firing point blank into their targets. Others grappled with their enemies, punching and kicking until their foe became unconscious. A few had combat knives, and used those silvery blades to slit throats and puncture hearts.

The few Alliance paratroopers left did not go down without a fight. Close quarters meant that bullets was sure to hit a target, and the random flailing of a submachine gun in full automatic fire claimed more than a few lives by sheer luck and volume of fire while its owner was being beaten on the head with a rock. Eventually, the clip ran dry, and the gun continued to click in the hands of its dead owner.

There was no cheering when the brutal melee ended a few moments after it erupted. The Angels screamed past by into the horizon, and everyone looked up at the white trails left in the sky. They kept on staring even after the Angels disappeared over the next mountain range and the sound of their engines could no longer be heard. Then, there was a soft sigh, and people started to react. Some cried, some laughed, and a few made a hiccupping sound. Regardless, they had survived. The Angels gave them their lives.

They were alive.

He was alive.

A hand radio cracked and buzzed, and then a voice came through, one from Corporal Zoe Alleyne.

“Sir, they are starting to move out. The troop transports are loading, and the new models definitely look functional.”

The radio cracked again, clicked twice, and a second voice reached his ear. “They still have a good amount left to load, but it should take them no more than 30 to reach you once they set off.” PFC Jacob Weston reported. Too bad even his suave voice cannot make this news sound pleasant.

He moved his hand and grabbed the radio on his belt, and pressed a button. There was a hiss and a click.

“Roger. Make sure you get yourselves to a good vantage point to cover us in the fight. Reynolds out.”

The failed ambushed had left a hundred men dead and another hundred bleeding out on the medical bed. Their strength had been reduced by half, but that was only numbers. The Alliance had come to take their home, to burn their land, and to stripe them down until they are a people of passive automatons, but they will not have an easy time of it. The Independent line held on that mountain, had held on other planets, and will continue to hold at Serenity Valley, as strong as the heart of oak. By the blessing of Angels and the grace of God, the western flank shall not break, not when each and every man left standing is willing fight to the very last.

Malcolm Reynolds stepped out of his shack; a ray of sunlight warmed his rugged, unshaven face. His eyes scanning over the mass of men busy digging and constructing the last of the traps and earthworks to delay and frustrate the enemy.

He took a step, his hand clenching around his cross, and let that final image of the disappearing Angel fade. With it returned the daunting tangibility of a painful death, but he shook it off with practiced ease.

He was First Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds, in command of Bravo and Delta Companies of the 3rd Battalion of the 142nd Planetary Defense Forces, and he had a battle to win.

---

Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

General Jarvis Lawrence stared at the sheet that Colonel Vincent handed him, a confusing message from a member of the Integrated Defense Committee, a political faction of the Alliance Parliament. But the chain of command could not be ignored, though it is strange to be ordered to ignore a separate chain of command. The commander took a second glance at his orders and crumpled it.

“Sir?” Vincent asked as the general took out a lighter and burned the paper ball.

“Just following orders.” Lawrence took another looked at the holographic table. Contrary to what he had expected, the orders made no mentions regarding Parliamentary agents on his base, and instead reminded Lawrence of his main objective to take control of Serenity Valley at all haste, while giving him leeway to make unilateral decisions to achieve this goal. The reasoning was riddled with political speak, but it boiled down to that a separate faction of the Parliament was moving to take over the oversight of the operations on Planet Hera, and the IDC was unwilling to relinquish control when a pivotal victory was close to be gained.

While his eyes drifted over the troops numbers that were ready for deployment, his mind again wondered to the mysterious orders. By all indications, the Parliamentary agents were working for this other faction of the Parliament, though it is still unknown how this takeover will occur. The simplest would be for an officer of higher rank and greater political backing to just declare himself in command, though there are no other generals on base, and Weir seemed more than content to remain in his billet, given the periodic reports Major Baker was sending. Something strange was definitely at play here, and Lawrence very much disliked potential political complications, especially with an enemy army was stationed just some klicks away.

But regardless, it was neither the place nor the time to go down the rabbit hole to try and understand politicians, not when each extra hour gave the Independents more time to fortify their static defenses. General Weir refused his summons to take part in the planning, and war waits for no man. Lawrence pulled up the inventory listing on the hologram, scanning over the latest progress report on the heavy artillery unloading from the orbiting fleet.

“Time to commit.” A soft whisper under his breath, but the diligent Colonel Vincent caught it. A loud whistle, courtesy of the Colonel, shrieked across the command center. Without a single reaction to acknowledge that he had even heard the whistle, General Lawrence spoke to the now attentive staff officers in the room.

“Send the orders, commence attack on the enemy southern frontline!”

---

Academy Codex, Entry 4, Classifications of Homo ascendus

Shortly after the transmission of the preliminary findings on Homo ascendus to a few select leaders of the Global Exodus Alliance onboard Prometheus, a group of researchers disappeared from all records, and a portion of Artemis suddenly became restricted. Prior to this event, the established rotation schedule was completely disrupted as a majority of the staff was prematurely ordered into cryo sleep, and a separate team was thawed for the first time since liftoff.

As with before, no records remain of the experimental protocols employed by this unknown group of scientists, but the results are intimately known by all scientists of the modern Academy. The resulting report was the classification of Homo ascendus and their capabilities, one that has since been vastly expanded upon due to the efforts of modern Academy researchers. The most current abstract of said report is included below.

Of the ascendus known to the Academy, a vast majority are found to possess Class One psychic capabilities. Genetics appears to favor the inheritance of Class One inducing genes, as Homo ascendus progeny tend to inherit Class One abilities when the two parents are of different psychic classifications. Two additional classes, Class Two and Class Three, also exist, though these subjects were a lot rarer, and there were greater variation in the manifestation of their powers.

Subjects with Class One psychic capabilities are deemed as the most dangerous members of the ascendus. Their powers all revolve around manipulation of force, reducing or outright eliminating forces that normally exist, or creating forces where there is no physical actor to perform the work. These forces could be subtle, rewiring brain synapses or actively generating sound waves that would interfere with incoming or outgoing noises. In the most catastrophic case, this force can give rise to a miniature black hole, ripping apart the local space time continuum. Fantastic feats of all sorts can be accomplished if a nudge was given at the appropriate time.

Class Two subjects, on the other hand, possess no such capability to change the world around them. Instead, they act as universal receivers; their psychic abilities gifting them with what the layperson would call “mind-reading.” Such a description, however, is wholly unfit to label the fantastic manifestations of mental receptive powers.

The first recorded Class Two subject was rather mundane compared to those that followed. He was capable of instinctively knowing the most recent memory of others near him. Subsequent Class Two psychics displayed powers of knowing a person’s most heartfelt intent, hearing all active thoughts of those nearby, or even understanding the future behaviors of an individual.

Class Three subjects are by far the most intriguing wielders of psychic capabilities. The most apt description manages to encompass all relevant subjects is “living black holes, of sorts.” While not literal beings of such dense matter that they exert a gravitational force strong enough that even light cannot escape, some does exhibit the ability to halt all light within a small perimeter. A majority of Class Three subjects, instead, are metaphoric black holes, each capable of absorbing a substance, physical or otherwise. One particularly useful subject drains willpower, while another can take away pain. Different manifestations are known to have different conduits of release for the absorbed substance.