"It looks like we're on our own once again," James MacDonald Hudson announced. He kept his tone formal, letting the circuitry modulate his voice so whatever emotion he might have felt could not be detected in his speech.
 "We always seem to make do, eh?" Judd said from his seat by the window. "Department H or no, Alpha Flight's always been there for Canada." Hudson's gaze flitted over to this old friend and team-mate. He nodded curtly. Something stirred inside him, but the circuitry diverted the welling emotion, stored it for later retrieval in the cybernetic portion of his brain. Briefly, his eyes travelled to his wife seated beside him. Another odd feeling rose within him; there was something he needed to consider here. Again, logic dictated that he set that aside. There were more pressing concerns.
 "My sentiments exactly," he said.
 "Noble sentiments, Mac," Michael Twoyoungmen cut in, rising from the sofa. "And I'm the last person to question it, but we have little to go on here. Apart from what we experienced at the Eye of the World."
 "And the presence of Hock and his crew, eh?" Judd added.
 "And Lil's disappearance," Madison Jeffries said after a long silence. "I want us to find my wife."
 "We will," Twoyoungmen said. "I sense your concern-"
 "Meanin' no disrespect, Michael," Jeffries interjected, "But I'd rather we be out there looking for Lil than in here debatin' what we're gonna do next. I got the feelin' that Lil ain't got much time."
 "We will find her, Madison," Heather said suddenly. "Rest assured, Alpha looks after its own."
 Jeffries nodded. "I just feel so... helpless."
 "Understandable, eh?" Judd sympathised. "Look," he turned to Michael, "You said Elizabeth was going to get a fix on some way we could get to the Dreamqueen?"
 "She's searching for the child, Laura Dean. We hope that she can create a portal between our world and the Dreamqueen's dimension. She's done it before; we're hoping she can do it again."
 Judd looked queasy. "Yeah, well. Sounds like yer planning on bringing the fight to her doorstep."
 Michael nodded. "If we can. I know you have had... a bad experience... in the Dreamqueen's realm."
 "Understatement of the decade," Judd grunted humorlessly. He shook his head, as if shrugging off some dark memory. "Let's just say that if we're gonna kick her butt, I'd like to be the first to plant my boot in her chalky derrier, eh?"
 "When can we expect to hear from Liz?" Madison asked.
 "She should be getting back to us soon," Michael said. "She said she'd get back in touch when she's contacted the Deans."
 "What of Hock and the others?" Heather inquired. "Are we involving them in all this?"
 "They're with me," Mac said. "If I'm in, so are they."
 Heather nodded. "Alright. Anyone tried to get get Walt, Jeanne-Marie and the others on the line?"
 Michael shook his head. "I tried, but it's been months since we were last in contact. I've put in an alert through what's left of Department H, but there's been no response."
 "So we have half of Alpha Flight and a band of outlaws from another dimension against an otherworldy demoness and her plans for the unravelling of all Creation," said Heather. She grinned suddenly, a twinkle in her eyes. "Why not?"

She had been walking for hours, scouring the streets for the signs that would lead her to the others. Silently, she cursed the limitations of the child's body that she inhabited. It had been difficult enough removing herself from the child's abode without the knowledge of the child's mother. Being a mother herself, she understood the woman's ire and concern; but there were greater things at stake than a mother's feelings. She hoped that the woman would be able to forgive the child once all this was over.
 The city threatened to overwhelm her newly mortal senses. Noise, smell, light, movement, voices, people. And in the midst of all of these were the people she sought.
 "Are you lost?" a voice boomed above her.
 She craned her neck and found herself staring at the towering form of a man. It was a moment before she recognised the uniform: it had been so long since she last walked this plane of existence. She shook her head, hoping that the policeman would let her on her own way.
 "Your dad or mom around?" he asked kindly.
 "Yes," she nodded, then pointed blindly ahead of her. "There they are." Without waiting for a response from the man, she skipped into the crowd, slipping in between the press of bodies. She risked a backward glance and sighed, relieved. She had lost him.
 She extracted herself from the throng, keeping close to taller bodies so that she could at least preserve the semblance of a child out in town with her parent. She could not afford to maintain this masquerade much longer, she realised. She had to find her old team mates before it was too late.

Moe Dunbar stared in awe at the silver expanse rising above him. So, this was Department H. He had only seen pictures of the installation in the papers and never thought it could look so -
"Intimidating?" Walter Langkowski asked from the driver's seat.
"Hell, yeah," Moe said. "So that's where our tax dollars went?"
Langkowski scoffed. "For a few years anyway. Until we were shut down. And re-started. And shut down." He shook his head wistfully. "I tell you, Alpha's had more resurrections than our own Mac Hudson -- Guardian." He grinned, as if savouring a private joke.
Moe frowned, confused. "They're taking an awful long time," he observed, nodding in the direction of the entrance arch. "Why didn't ya go in with them?"
"Don't know," Langkowski admitted. "Bad memories, I guess."
"Your girlfriend didn't mind going in."
"Yeah, well, it's different from me." Langkowski settled into a slouch in the driver's seat, his chin digging into his chest. "Elmo can sort it out with H. Or Northstar. Or Jeanne-Marie. All we need are records of where the rest of the Flight are located. Once we have that, it shouldn't be too much trouble to rally them."
"Ya think they're gonna join us?"
"Hey, we're Alpha Flight. We've got the protection of Canada topmost on our list of things to do. There's no permanent retirement when you're an Alpha, my friend," Langkowski announced, clapping Moe on the shoulder. "You'll see when you meet the others."
"Yeah," Moe rumbled, not knowing if he did want to meet the others. The few he'd met since hooking up with Elmo had changed his world enough -- yet, he had to admit, there was a kind of exciting buzz just hanging out with there people.  On one level, they were extraordinary beings; on another, they were human, flesh, blood, joy, anger, sadness, like any other joe. He sat upright. "They're back."
"Well?" Langkowski asked out the window as the three approached.
"They were most helpful," Aurora said, slipping him a light kiss. "It seems that two of our own were here recently: James Hudson and Madison Jeffries."
"Oh?"
"They've returned to Ottawa," Northstar chipped in. "We've got addresses."
"Great," Langkowski said. He revved up the engine. "Ottawa here we come."

She heard the dull, heavy thud of his footsteps even before he entered her sanctum.
"Miss-tress?" the thrall said. "The hoo-man is here..."
She whirled to see her thrall step aside, letting the woman sheathed in blood and ebon enter the chamber.
"I bid thee greetings once more, Dream Weaver," she said.
The Dreamqueen's face showed no expression. "Why have you returned?" she asked.
"Because the endgame begins in earnest," the other said, her voice softly sibilant behind the scarlet and silver face mask.  She raised her sword; the blade glistened with the light of a thousand stars. "Set your pieces, Dreamqueen."
"What of your pawns? They are still scattered."
"Not for long," the swordswoman replied. "Even now, they move towards the gathering. And when they are together..."
"... the war begins."
The swordswoman nodded.
"And what of your Avatar? The mortal woman who claims your name and deeds? She is still lost."
The masked head tilted slightly and a whispered sound emerged through the face-shroud. Was she laughing? The Dreamqueen held tight reign on her anger.
"Lost?" the swordswoman said. "Far from it. I have kept here safe. She will come when the time is right."

There was a knock on the door. Judd excused himself from the meeting and padded out to the hallway of the Hudsons' apartment. He opened the door.
"Thank Hodiak I've found you," the chubby, yellow-haired child said and, much to his surprise, bustled into the Hudson's apartment with nary another word.
"Hey!" he said, reaching to grab her by the arm, but she yanked away with a speed that belied her age and stature.
She turned and stared him level in the eyes. There was something oddly familiar about her eyes, he thought. They were too dark and... luminescent, as if burning with a light of their own.
"Do you not know me, Eugene Milton Judd?" the little girl said. "Do you not recognise Narya, Daughter of Nelvanna, Grand-Daughter of Hodiak?"
"Snowbird?" Judd gasped.
"None other, friend Judd."
"But you're... you must be... five or six, eh?"
"In this body, yes. But hopefully, not for long. I need to speak to Michael Twoyoungmen."
"But you're--" Judd shook his head. He was going to say - dead. But he'd seen enough resurrections in the last two years to last him a lifetime. So why bother asking? "C'mon. I'll take ya to the others."
"They're all here?"
"Well, there're quite a few of us, eh?"
"What of Northstar, Aurora, Sasquatch and The Keeper?"
"Walt's coming? And the twins?" Judd asked, genuinely surprised. "How d'ya- who's the Keeper?"
But before the bright-haired child could answer, there came another banging on the door.
"Mac!" a familiar voice called from the other side. "Open up. It's Walt. And a few... others."
Judd's eyes widened. "Mac! Heather!" he bellowed. "I think you should come out here."

Jacob Buford could hardly credit his senses when cracks began appearing across the concrete face of the pavement outside his garage. An earthquake? Here?
"Hey, Burke!" he called to his assistant. "Come see this."
Burke Galtrey ambled out, wiping engine oil off his hands. "What?" he grizzled.
"Take a look at that," Jake pointed. Burke's jaw dropped slack.
"What the hell is it?"
"Dunno, eh?" Jake said.
The cracks widened and both men found themselves backing away as the fracture spread in their direction. Wisps of smoke curled out of the cracks. "Reckon ya better call the cops, boss" Burke said.
Jake nodded. He was two steps in the direction of the garage when the pavement erupted in a thunderclap of flame and dark smoke. Chunks of concrete showered over them. Burke's yell of surprise was cut short as a fist-sized hunk of rock that struck him on the side of the head; Jake scrambled to his feet, dodging cascading pieces of masonry and bedrock, his ears ringing in the aftermath of the explosion.
Something was rising out of the hole in the ground.
His eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
The smoke cleared.
Arluoth Karkassin stared at the slack-jawed peasant cowering no more than ten yards before him. Another peasant lay senseless on the ground not far from him.
"We are here," he intoned.
The Twelve gathered around him, their weapons bristling.
Karkassin strode towards the peasant. "Where is the Wizard?" he asked.
Something gurgled in the man's throat. This one was useless, Karkassin decided. He raised his hand; at that gesture, the Twelve levelled their weapons for the kill.
But he reconsidered. The peasant, native to this world, was a hefty specimen. Perhaps there was another way he could extract information from the wretch. His hand lowered part way and effected another gesture. "Take him," he commanded.
Jake Buford recovered wit enough to realise that the stranger's words were bad news. He broke into a run, but the other men -- the ones with the swords -- bore down on him. He crashed against the pavement, hard, and strong arms pinned him down. He cried out in pain as a cracking rib lanced fire into his side. He jerked under their weight, the futile, last-gasp struggle of a landed fish, and caught the eyes of the first man: the one who spoken that strange gibberish.
And for the first time in a long time, Jake Buford felt real fear.

It fitted like a glove, Judd thought studying his own reflection in the mirror. How long since he had last worn it? Two years? Three? Yet, for all that time, returning to his original Alpha uniform was like putting on a favourite pair of jeans or sneakers: somehow, it felt right on you.
It wasn't the most chic of superhero duds, he had to admit. The big red 'P' over his torso, the wristbands, the bared arms and legs -- it had more in common with a garish wrestler's costume than something any self-respecting modern super-hero would don, but somehow, it looked, and felt, right.
"Reminiscing about the old days?" Heather's voice sounded from the doorway.
Judd whirled around, surprised -- how did she get in without him hearing?
"I've learned a thing or two about skulking around corners," she explained, as if reading his thoughts. "I was taught by some of the best," she added, winking at him.
"Guess I'm getting deaf in my old age, eh?" he said, returning her smile. "And in answer to your first question: No. But I thought that since the old gang's back, and now that Alpha's not affiliated with any organisation, government or otherwise, that this would be more appropriate than the red and white union suit."
"It looks good on you."
"You think?" he asked, stepping back from the mirror. "I've heard it called a monkey-suit, eh?"
She squinted at his reflection, affecting critical scrutiny. "Nah," she said at last, the slight signs of a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "Truth be told, I've always liked the old uniforms the best. That's why I adopted the same motif from Mac's battlesuit when I took up leadership of the Flight after- well, you know."
Judd nodded. Some things were best left unsaid, and the silence carried all the meaning it needed to have.
A knock on the door startled them.
"Is this a private tryst or can I interrupt?" Walter Langkowski grinned from the doorway.
Judd thought he caught Heather blush at that comment.
"Walter," Heather said. "Uh- no. Come in. We were just... reminiscing over old times."
"Old times, eh?" Walt said stepping inside. "Why I remember that time when Mr. Judd took exception to my calling him the team mascot..."
"And you remember what happened when you did that, eh?" he said, faking a frown.
Walter held up his hands. "Whoah. Yeah, I remember. And I don't care to repeat that experience."
"Good thing too," Judd rumbled. "You here to join us old timers? Or did you want to see Heather and I 'specially?"
"You got me there, Judd," Walter admitted. "Canny as ever."
"What is it, Walter?" Heather asked.
"I thought I'd try and catch you the couple of minutes before we all reconvene to hear our recently resurrected demigoddess explain how we can save the world one more time." He mocked distress. "Phew. That was a mouthful. Anyway: I don't want this to seem as though I'm going behind Mac's back and all, but since I got here-"
"You don't need to say it Walt," Heather sighed. "I know. Mac's half alien technology. Do we trust it enough for him to lead us in this matter."
"You read my mind," Walt said. "No offense to Mac, I've known him since the early days of H, but -"
"-but this is a different Mac," Heather finished for him. "And don't I know it. Truth be told, Walter, I have the same doubts as you do."
"You led Alpha for a time," Walt said. "During Mac's... err... absence."
"You want me to lead the team again?" she inquired. "I don't know if I can give you an answer to that Walt."
"He's right, Heather," Judd put in. "You held the team together through those dark days. In many ways, you have a lot more field experience than Mac."
Heather gave him a noncommital shrug. "It might not even be an issue for Mac. I'll speak to him. Half of him is still the man I married. That part of him will listen."
Walt nodded. "Sounds good to me. Thanks for listening."
"We'd best get back to the others," Heather said, relieved that the discussion had ended. She had never been comfortable with the issue of leadership since Mac's second return. And with Alpha disbanded, it had become a moot point. Now that it looked as if they were marshalling once more to battle an old foe... "I'll speak to Mac tonight," she said.
Judd patted her hand. "You want me along?"
Walt looked at him, one brow raised quizically.
"Don't ask," Judd said. "Things are complex as it is."
"I'll deal with it myself," Heather said. "Thanks for offering."
She left for the loungeroom.
"Not that it's my business, but is there something going on between you and our erstwhile leader?" Walt asked.
"You might say that," Judd said. "Or you might not," he added cryptically, winking at the tall man.

They sat circling the small blonde child: Mac, Madison, Heather, Judd, Walt, Jeanne-Marie, Northstar, Elmo, Moe, Michael, Hock and his men: all cramped into the Twoyoungmen's tiny living room. The girl, her pale yellow locks bouncing as she spoke, looked all of five or six, yet the small voice that piped from purse lips spoke with a lilt and inflection that was unmistakably that of Narya, Daughter of Nelvanna, Grand-daughter of Hodiak, the demigoddess known as Snowbird.
A long silence followed when she finished. She turned, stared each one in the eyes, waiting while they digested what she had just told them. Only Elmo looked unperturbed. The big, red-haired giant leaned back in Michaels' armchair, his meaty legs propped up against the table. Moe Dunbar, in the seat next to his, sat with his jaws hanging slack.
"We need to act and soon," the child said, breaking the silence. "The Dreamqueen has marshalled her armies and I sense that they are close."
"What do you mean, close?" Walt asked. "As in here? In Canada?"
"Yes," the child replied calmly. "We are many, and powerful, but they are legion."
"You make it sound like all out war, eh?" Judd said, folding his arms across his chest.
"It is, friend Judd," the child replied. "But one that will not be fought here."
"Where then?" Jeanne-Marie asked.
"The place of battle has yet to be determined. There will be a confrontation between us and the Dreamqueen's forces before that is decided. And only a few of us will be allowed there."
"A few?" Judd's brows furrowed. "What do ya mean, eh?"
Narya glided to her seat, sat with one leg crossed over the other, an oddly incongruous pose for a child still chubby with baby fat. Judd would have laughed if not for child's penetrating gaze on him. "The first confrontation will decide which of us will fight the Dreamqueen's dark champions."
"You make it sound like a game, Narya," Heather said.
"It is a game, Heather. More than you know. A game with the whole of creation as its ultimate prize."
"Why Alpha?" Northstar questioned suddenly. "There are other groups out there: the Avengers, the Fantastic Four. Even the X-Men. What makes Alpha Flight so special?"
"Alpha Flight isn't special," the child explained. "The name, the team means nothing beyond whatever it signifies to us. But the people who make the team: they are special. They are the ones foretold-"
"Foretold?" Michael interrupted. "A prophecy? Where?"
"In stories older than you would know, Michael Twoyoungmen."
"I've heard enough," Northstar cried suddenly, rising to his feet. "I've heard a child who claims to be Snowbird reborn in the flesh tell us of an apocalyptic prophecy to rival that in a dozen other holy books." He paced to the centre of the gathering, turning to address them. "I've heard of a fight that must happen so that some of us may be selected, like pawns, to face the Dreamqueen's servants. I do not know about you, but I am tired of being a pawn in someone else's game. Why don't we take this fight to its source? To the Dreamqueen herself? I have heard that some of you have entered her dimension."
"Accidentally," Heather corrected him. "We have no real way there unless-" She looked at Michael. The Sarcee medicine man shook his head.
"The number of realities out there are infinitesimal. Hers is only one of many, many dimensions. Our only hope lies in the child, Laura Dean. Only she has opened a way to the Dreamqueen's lair."
"Don't discount me, eh?" Judd said. "I've been there and returned. I might be able to help."
"Then it's settled," Michael said solemnly. "We bring the fight to the Dreamqueen."
No one argued with him.

It was getting dark and Danny Dunbar knew that he'd better get along inside or mom would get mad. And when she did, there would be no peace in the house. Even Dirk, his step-dad, flinched when his mom got mad.
He dribbled the basketball a couple of circles on the pavement, aimed and shot. The ball bounced clear of the hoop and richocheted towards the road. He ran after it, following the sound of its bounce.
That sound stopped.
A man, silhouetted against the sunset sky held the ball in his hand. For a second, Danny thought it might've been his dad, but this man was thin and weird looking.
"Daniel?" the man asked.
Danny nodded.
From where he stood, the man threw the ball. It arced through the air and then dropped smoothly through the hoop. Danny grabbed it after the first bounce.
"Cool!" he cried. "You a basketball player, mister?"
The man shook his head. His features were still hidden by shadows but Danny could tell that he was very very pale.
"Is your father here?" he asked.
"Dirk? I'll go get him."
 "No, not Dirk. Your real father. Maurice Dunbar."
Danny shook his head sadly. "But he'll be here Saturday," he said, brightening up.
"Ah." The man knelt down. Danny could see his face now: thin, hook-nosed. His eyes were strangely sunken and odd-coloured. "Can you give him something for me?"
"What is it?"
The man held out a strange object: a little animal shape made out of clay. Daniel fingered it gingerly in his palm. "What is it?" he repeated.
"Something he needs. It's for good luck."
Danny grinned. "Sure." Maybe it'll bring Dad back to live with us, he thought. "Thanks."
But when he looked up, the man was gone, and the sun was so close to the horizon that stars glittered in the sky.
Danny swore, slipping the clay talisman in his pocket. He pelted back to the house: he was going to be in trouble with his mom now.

Buford's garage remained close for the rest of the day. The phone rang through twice. Once, a prospective customer drove up only to find the roller door pulled all the way down and the CLOSED sign prominently displayed over it. He reversed and drove off, finding another mechanic two kilometres away who could tend to his station wagon. No one else thought it odd that the place was closed on a weekday.
Inside, Jake Buford dangled upside down on chains from the ceiling bars, his arms and legs held spreadeagled by more chains. His blood, vomit and urine mingled with petrol and engine oil on the garage floor. Through the haze of pain, he saw his captors drag Burke Galtrey's body to the spot on the floor directly under him.
Burke was dead, of that he was certain. He was also certain that his captors had no intention of letting him live. He'd come to that realisation an hour ago. Before that, he'd bled, coughed, retched and soiled himself through an ordeal that lasted for two hours while they asked the same question again and again.
"Where is the Wizard?"
"Oz!" he'd finally blurted out, exhausted from the beatings, cuts and burns. He'd expected the final merciful blow but the man who led his captors must've had other plans.
Now, watching his own blood drip over Burke's corpse, he wondered what they had planned.
His captors came around him once more. One of them - the one who had asked him questions while the others tormented him, knelt over Burke's body. He produced a knife from his robes and dug the blade into Burke's belly. It made a wet, squishing sound as it went in, and he started to cut upwards.
Jake's guts tightened; bile flooded down his throat into his mouth as he watched his buddy's corpse defiled by the madman.
Arluoth Karkassin dragged a handful of the dead peasant's entrails out and spread them on the floor. The stench of blood was powerful but he had long ago learned to ignore the smell. The rite had to be performed exactly as inscribed, or all would be lost.
Done with this task, he rose and signalled two of his soldiers to drag the drawn corpse away. He turned his attention to the second peasant. This one had endured torture, steadfastly claiming that he knew nothing of the wizard. Arluoth was inclined to believe him - he'd seen soldiers crumble under torture; this one was only a peasant and  in spite of the punishment they had meted out to this one, he had divulged no answer. Which meant that he must be honestly ignorant of the Wizard's presence.
Still, there were other ways of divining.
He turned to look his captive in the eyes. The man made no sound but Arluoth could sense that he was terrified. Seeking to draw out the man's terror, Arluoth raised the bloodied point of his knife and traced a line across the peasant's chest, stopping just before the mark that lay over his right chest. Arluoth had been intrigued by the mark earlier when his soldiers had stripped the peasant. At first, he thought some other sorceror had claimed this peasant but he did not recognise the whorls and inscriptions inscripted in the man's man's skin. There was another inscription on the peasant's upper arm, strange, arcane symbols surrounding a red device. He had traced the symbols: M O M: and wondered if they were some kind of ward that protected this peasant from harm.
He had proven that wrong: the man could be hurt, and easily. Which meant that the inscriptions had lost their power, or that they were purely decorative. Still, he wasn't willing to take his chances with magic that he did not understand.
Now, he watched while blood ran from the cut he had traced in the burly peasant's chest. The man gasped in pain but could do little but submit to the ritual. He drew another line of blood under the first and began intoning the words of his grand spell.
The peasant's body shuddered; he groaned, in fear, in pain, or because of the spell.
Arluoth chanted, the syllables falling easily from his lips. Smoke rose out of the entrails he had scattered around him, green tongues of fire played marked out the shape of the circle he had drawn with the dead peasant's blood. His incantation reached fever pitch, yet the words flowed flawlessly from him. The chained peasant cried out as his skin sizzled, formed blisters that hardened and then exploded painfully. Blue smoke trailed out of his mouth, nostrils and ears.
Abruptly, Arluoth flung his hands up and outwards, crying out the final note of the spell. Green light blazed from the circle, shot upwards around him. The peasant's frantic screams pierced his ears as arcane energies consumed him. He drew away, watching as the suspended body twisted and squirmed in a morbid death dance. Hair and skin burned away, leaving red flesh quivering in chains.
Slowly, the flames dwindled away.
Throughout the ritual, his soldiers had watched silently, impassive. Now, they surged forward.
Arluoth smiled. He was exhausted - the spell had cost him more energy than he had expected. It would be sometime before he could try anything like that again. But he had prevailed, and because of that, felt triumphant. "The wizard is here," he said, turning to his soldiers. "And I know where he is."
Behind him, Jake Buford's flayed body gave one last quiver then fell still.