In a heavy, armored truck, we rumbled down the roadway: twelve men sat opposite each other in two neat rows. No one had spoken since we left. Dex checked his weapon habitually. Jag flicked a large knife open and closed. Bear spoke silently, his eyes closed, as though in prayer. I fidgeted in my seat, my eyes darting from one face to another, studying expressions while avoiding eye contact, unable to fathom how they could all seem so calm.

We drove over a large bump, the truck jolted, and I jumped as adrenaline shot through me. I heard several snickers, but I was too afraid to be indignant.

I leaned towards Dak, grizzled and stoic.

“Is it true,” I asked, “how strong they are? And fast?”

“Mmhmm,” he answered gruffly.

“And they don’t even know what they are? They actually think they’re the real person?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Is it true that…?”

“Son, listen. If it makes your blood run cold, then it’s true.”

I swallowed hard. My voice died out inside a dry throat.

After a few moments of silence, Dak put his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s all right, kid. Everyone’s first mission is tough.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I mumbled.

Without warning, the truck came to a sudden halt. I shouldered into the man on my left, caught off guard, and caught a few more snickers.

“Up and ready!” Dak barked without pause.

We sprang to our feet in unison, running through quick final equipment checks.          

“Lok, you’re with me!” he said to me. “Eyes sharp!”

I nodded wordlessly. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

“Men,” he called, “Constant Awareness.”

“Constant Awareness,” they chanted.

“Constant Awareness,” I echoed.

“Good luck,” he wished us gravely.

Then the truck doors opened, and we piled out onto the well mown lawn of a common, red brick house at the far end of a cul-de-sac.

It was a pleasant fall afternoon. The sun was shining. Birds sang in the trees as the wind rustled the leaves. A group of children playing street hockey nearby watched in surprise as we assembled.

There were children here.

Dak was barking orders. Focus, I reminded myself. Focus was vital.

“Alpha Team, advance. Bravo Team, flank.”

“Bravo flanking,” Kar answered.

Half our company began to slink around the sides of the house, setting up the perimeter. Dak headed for the front door, the rest of us close behind. I stood at his left, my grip on my weapon vicelike. Up the steps we marched to the porch where Dak raised his hand and knocked sharply three times.

A few moments passed…then the lock clicked, and the door swung aside.

A thin, balding man stood framed in the doorway, dressed for a night out, curiosity in his face. As he looked out at us from the threshold, his expression blanched.

“Micah Thorn?” Dak asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Agent Dak, AMCF. I’m sorry to disturb you, but if I may have a minute of your time, I would like a few words with you. And your wife.”

Thorn made a high-pitched squeaking sound, like a mouse being trodden on.

“She’s…upstairs…getting dressed,” he stammered.

“Well, there’s no need to disturb her. If you would indulge us, we’ll wait for her to come down.”

Thorn opened his mouth and closed it. His eyes darted back over his shoulder, and it was clear he wanted to slam the door in our faces. But then he nodded and stood aside.

Dak stepped in past him. I followed him into an orderly house with minimal décor and a pile of shoes in the hall. Our heavy black boots thudded on the wood floors as we made our way through to the living room. There, Dak took a seat on the sofa. Thorn sat in an armchair opposite him while I and the rest stood around them. Then, we waited.

Minutes passed like hours in the tense silence. Thorn shifted uncomfortably. Dak casually checked his watch. I shuffled my feet, my heart pounding somewhere in my throat.

Finally, the sound of high heels reached my ears.

The hairs on my neck stood up. Dak nodded to Thorn.

“Perhaps you’d better bring her in.”

Thorn ran from the room as though launched from a spring. In his absence, Dak spoke to us quietly.

“Maintain perimeter. Subject on site.”

I braced myself from my position by the door as a tall, beautiful woman in an elegant emerald dress entered the room a step ahead of Thorn. Or at least, the shape of a woman, but what could be lurking behind those sparkling eyes?

She inhaled sharply as she saw us. Dak stood, smoothing his uniform professionally.

“Mrs. Thorn. Agent Dak. My apologies for disturbing you. I just have a few questions.”

She seemed to be studying us. Did the thing know it was caught, found out? But it wouldn’t, would it? It had no idea what it was, that it wasn’t even a person.

If we were right. I could only pray we were not, as surely everyone else was at that moment.

The Subject slowly took a seat at Dak’s side. Thorn returned to the chair he had vacated, off to the side.

“I must say, you look splendid tonight, Mrs. Thorn,” Dak offered, all politeness even in the face of the unholy.

“Thank you,” she answered.

“Now, you work in intelligence, I understand?”

“I do.”

“Then I need not insult yours by explaining the purpose of this call?”

“Just ask your questions, Agent,” she said. “Take as long as you need.”

“Very well then.”

Dak pulled a black notebook from his pocket.

“When did you begin your job?”

“Five years ago.”

“And you do not speak of the nature of your work to anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Your cover identity?”

“I’m an analyst at a firm downtown.”

“Good, good. Now, do you have any serious medical conditions?”

“No.”

“Nothing at all? Nothing that might cause, say, occasional fainting spells? Dizziness? Blackouts? Memory loss?”

“Now, is that really necessary?” Thorn blurted out. “Interrogating my wife about her medical history in her own house?”

They ignored him. I felt a prickle of ire. Didn’t the fool know this was all for his protection?

“No, nothing like that.”

“Do you ever drink?”

“Occasionally.”

“Have you ever experimented with illicit substances?”

“Now, just a second…!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Thorn, this is all off-book. Mrs. Thorn?”

“No. I don’t do drugs.”

“Still, can you remember any times when you might have lost time…passed out unexpectedly, or slept in unusually late? Anything you can think of, even something minor?”

The Subject shifted uncomfortably before shaking her head.

“Mrs. Thorn, this is all off-books, but you know you are obligated to answer candidly.”

Her lips quivered, a compelling touch to the act. Slowly, tremulously, she nodded.

My skin prickled and my finger twitched over the trigger guard.

“I see,” said Dak seriously.

“Now just wait a second!” Thorn protested. “I don’t think a bit of fun at a bar is grounds for…!”

“Mr. Thorn, when it comes to Shapes…”

Thorn sprang to his feet, hands clenched. I raised my weapon in alarm, but Dex shot me a sharp look. I relaxed, but only just. The tension in the room was now palpable. Meanwhile, Dak stared up at him, totally unfazed.

“She’s not a Shape!” Thorn insisted.

“Sir, when detecting Shapes, we have to take even the smallest sign seriously.”

“So, we should all live in fear of a few moments of unaccounted for sleep?! Is that what you’re saying?”

“Mr. Thorn, AMCF agents never sleep. We’re trained not to, so we may be constantly aware. Not a moment of unawareness is permitted.”

That phased him. He stammered incoherently for several moments until his voice died out in a strangled croak and he sank back into his seat, defeated.

The Subject appeared to be on the verge of tears, assuming she was even capable of such human emotion. She looked at Thorn helplessly, and in that moment, I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her, surrounded, cornered, interrogated, and accused.

Until I remembered what had probably happened to the real Ceilia Thorn.

“Just a few questions more,” Dak said. “Mrs. Thorn, how long have you been married?”

The Subject took a deep breath. She was playing this well, true to the part even when cornered.

“J-just over a year.”

“And you love your husband?”

“Yes! I do!”

It was remarkable how genuine she could sound.

“Bravo Team, in position,” hissed a voice in my earpiece.

“Very good,” Dak responded. “I’m very sorry for any distress I’ve caused you, Mrs. Thorn.”

“If they’re ready, just say it and get it over with.”

“Very well.”

He looked around at us, and particularly at me.

“Stand firm,” he ordered.

My heart raced. I steeled myself and raised my weapon again. Half a dozen barrels trained on the sofa.

Thorn gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. The Subject was now shaking from head to toe, as though frightened. It was so believable. She looked so normal, so unassuming, pretty, and fair. Could such monstrous truth really lurk behind those eyes?

But that was just the trap: the doubt.

Dak looked the Subject carefully in the eyes. I saw his mouth move and heard the words he spoke in a lilting, archaic language.

They were strange words, yet they seemed to speak to me, to unlock an irresistible understanding buried deep within: the knowledge that without spirit, I would be nothing but dust.

The scene hung suspended as the last word left his mouth. My vision tunneled around the Subject’s face.

She looked past Dak, her face white, her mouth open in shock. I braced the butt of the gun against my shoulder, waiting for the snap.

There was a horrible tearing sound. Something flew past my shoulder like a softball and landed on the carpet.

It was Bear’s head.

Against all my years of training, I turned away from the Subject to look over my shoulder.

Micah Thorn stood beside Bear’s dismembered body, drenched in blood, his eyes like black voids, his face a twisted mask of dread and rage.

Ceilia Thorn screamed in terror.

“OH SHIT! ITS HIM! SHAPE CONFIRMED!”

“ADJUST FORMATION! NEW TARGET! NEW…AAAAAHHHHH!”

“OH, FUCK!”

“BRAVO, ENGAGE! EN…”

“FUCK! AGENTS DOWN! FALL BA-AAAAA…!”

“GO, GO…AAAAUUUGGHH!”

“MICAH, NO! NOOO!”

My training abandoned me as blind terror seized my mind. I let bullets fly, neither knowing nor caring where they fell. Gore splattered the wallpaper and floor. My teammates died before they knew they’d been hit, no time to rally, no time to flee, a split second enough to compromise us against an enemy without empathy or restraint. They fell as I looked on helplessly, as though from inside a nightmare.

The last thing I remembered was a blur, a searing pain, and staring into the eyes of madness. Then darkness enveloped me, and I fell into those black pits.

Into the abyss.