On a crisp October evening, Ngabo was sitting on a bench near Lennon’s memorial in Central Park.

He was reflecting on an old, faded memory. One from over twenty years ago, when he and his father had sat on this very same bench. It was their first time in New York City and Ngabo’s father had brought his worn Panasonic Discman with him.

Ngabo remembered his father jamming an earbud into his six-year-old right ear, and the other earbud into his own. He cued up his Discman and the thick muddy piano chords of “Imagine” began.

Being six though, and somewhat socially maladjusted (not unlike his father), Ngabo didn’t pick up on the importance of this small, modest moment his father was trying to create for the two of them.

When his father asked if he liked the song, Ngabo simply said, “I don’t like it.”

His reminiscence was interrupted when an older Eastern European man in a woolen pea coat sat next to him.

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Dogwood could never recall how he arrived in this godforsaken place.

All he knew was, each day – on a well-oiled, exceedingly accurate tick by tock schedule – he was eaten.

They always let him marinate for a few hours first. Hogtied, gagged, and fettered at the bottom of an exceptionally large stockpot. By his estimate, his devourer was particularly fond of salt.

‘Poor bastard; he’s gonna get high blood pressure.’ These musings often kept Dogwood distracted from the fact he was spending an awfully long time drowning in a citrus and garlic ocean.

The first time he’d been dragged out of the pot to his dinner guest… well, Dogwood had put on quite a show. Kicking, screaming, and riddling them with holes from a barrage of rhythmically strung together vulgarities.

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Paul Bishop stuffed his G-Form protected iPad in his pack and scrambled into the next room.

Arnie Flynn was already hollering, “Rule #1, never be late for a jump. Rule #2, don’t forget rule #1.”

“I got it.”

It was Bishop’s first day on the job. His first jump, and he hadn’t a clue what to expect.  “What’s the plan after we land.”

“Where we’re going there are no plans. Just keep your eyes open, follow my every move, and you’ll be fine. They don’t know were coming, so the first few seconds are always critical.”

“What do you mean crit…?”

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