The television drones on quietly, an old black and white CRT set barely hanging on the wall of the hotel's lobby from a rusty old TV mount. The thin, fake brown wooden walls of the lounge have seen better days, faded and lacking the original luster that would've been a joy to look at whenever the hotel had been constructed, probably decades ago.

Vincent stands quietly in the middle of the lobby, staring at the television. Almost as if it's expected, the local news is on and, though the current segment has a male and female anchor discussing major events across the country, there's not a peep about the Buckhorn Mountain incident or any other strange happenings across the nation.

Calmly, Vincent turns his attention to the rest of the lobby to occupy his time in a way that won't distract him. A few old wooden chairs are set comfortably in a corner, as dusty and worn as the walls themselves. The tile floor, once a pearly white, is now a gross yellow from age, struggling to reflect the light from the single fan whining overhead as it slowly turns. A newer looking plastic table stands near the door, complete with what Vincent can guess is a continental breakfast: some stale honey buns and some generic fruit pastries, all in wrappers, right next to a coffee machine that may be as old as the hotel. The red light atop the coffee maker flickers desperately, as if begging for mercy.

Sudden movement brings the tired daydreaming Vincent to attention, his gaze turning toward the bulletproof glass separating him and the tiny office on the other side. An older woman settles into her seat, gently sliding Vincent's credit card in the middle slot underneath it. He steps over to acquire it, removing his wallet and replacing it where he'd taken it from earlier.

"All we need is your signature," the old woman says, trying to smile, pushing the flimsy paper underneath the window. Lifting the pen, chained to the desk as if they were concerned someone might take off with it, Vincent quietly scribbles his name on the line and returns the paper to the woman on the other side of the window.

"Thank you, dear. Your room will be on the bottom floor. Room 3." The subtle scrape of metal on metal announces the presence of a key.

Gently lifting the key up, Vincent calmly clutches it in his hand. "Thanks. Oh, and... just out of curiosity, have you noticed any seismic activity around here?"

The old lady chuckles, resting her arms on her side of the window. "Oh yeah. Been gettin' worse, and I don't just mean the tremors. There's always been boys from the national guard around these parts, but a lot more of 'em showed up just as the tremors started." She leans back in her chair now. "Rumor has it that they've built a military base out there in the woods."

"I see. Any idea what direction that might be in? Any trails I can take to look at it?" Vincent inquires curiously, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in his inquiry.

The old woman shakes her head. "Not a clue. Sorry, dear. Even if I knew, I just don't have what it takes to go out there and have a look. I think they've closed all the roads leading into the mountains, so if you're planning to go over there, you might want to be careful they don't catch ya or anything." She grins knowingly at him.

Vincent offers a dismissive handwave. "Alright. Thanks for the info."

"Don't be a stranger," the old lady smiles, watching Vincent turn to leave the lobby, before leaning down to take up her newspaper. Before he leaves, Vincent quickly peruses a rack of pamphlets about the surrounding area and things to do, plucking one that reads 'Oregon and the Blue Mountain's Native American Heritage'. He sighs and stares at the entrance to the hotel, as if contemplating his next steps, before walking over and exiting the lobby.

Once outside, Vincent crosses the parking lot to his vehicle, unlocking the trunk and lifting it, leaning in to grab a hiking pack. He briefly admires the sky as it begins to turn orange from the sunset, even if he can't see the sun from where he is.

Slamming the trunk shut behind him, he heads straight for the door to his room, obvious by the number plate on the door. Though it seems to be upside down, hanging precariously by a single rusty nail, leaving an unpainted wooden spot of the original number above it. With a slow shake of his head, Vincent unlocks the door and steps inside, ignoring another vehicle pulling into the parking lot just as he does so. He shuts the door and tosses his hiking pack onto the bed, considering the room quietly as he locks the door behind him.

The hotel room is in slightly better shape compared to the lobby. The floor, a thin layer of beige carpet; the walls, a similar fake wood as in the lobby. A slight water spot on the ceiling catches his eye near the door to the bathroom. The bed is a single queen-sized, and he calmly removes the blanket and sheets from the bed, checking underneath for bedbugs. Satisfied, he calmly flops into bed, kicking off his shoes and turning on the room's television. Unlike the lobby, the television looks newer, but it's still a bulky mess settled onto a stand just a bit too small for it. It's about that point, as he turns on the TV, that he realizes that someone's recruited two boards of wood to keep the television held up properly.

With the television providing background noise - an old black and white western on a movie channel - Vincent quietly peruses the pamphlet from earlier. As expected, it outlines trails into the mountains that lead to old Native American hunting and fishing sites, as well as old camps. Stretching out the pamphlet properly, Vincent digs into his hiking pack for the map Don printed out for him, quietly comparing the trails. There's a single trail left out of the pamphlet, one that winds through an area notably away from the other trails, especially the main road up the mountain. Vincent digs into the bag for a marker, quietly circling the trail.

"Looks like you were right, Don. I really need to learn to stop questioning you," Vincent whispers to himself, capping the marker and tossing it back into the bag. Once he gets his things organized again, he zips up the pack and settles comfortably back onto the bed, resting his head on the bed's single pillow. He loses himself to his thoughts, until he drifts off to sleep to the quiet hum of the occasional vehicle driving past.

Though it doesn't seem as though he's slept long enough, his alarm awakens him, though it is still night outside. He opens his eyes, stares at the phone as it illuminates the room, and he grunts in annoyance. Resisting the urge to go back to sleep, he slowly stands, turns off the alarm on his phone, and gets up from bed as slow as possible. Finally up on his feet, he moves to shower.

It's still dark out, somewhere between 2 and 3 am, when he steps out of the shower.

Quietly, Vincent begins to put some hiking clothes on: khaki pants, a blue long sleeve shirt, a black insulating jacket, and a grey wool cap. He finishes up with some worn running shoes and sunglasses.

Stepping outside into the cold night air, Vincent locks the door behind him, turning to walk toward his vehicle. On the other side of the parking lot, the silhouette of two men are seated on displaced hotel pool chairs, only obvious by the brief flashes as they light each other's cigarettes. Their conversation is impossible to overhear, even in the dark, but it's obvious they're talking; unintelligible bits of talking echo out from their general direction into the lonely parking lot. After a brief trip to the trunk to put his pack into it, Vincent takes a moment to consider the two silhouettes as he moves around the car to the driver side door. Deciding it isn't worth the effort to investigate, he climbs in and starts the car, leaving the parking lot soon after.

Just outside of town, Vincent slows down at an intersection, where he can see a military blockade in the distance. Several cars are also stopped, right in front of him, and the line moves slowly, giving him time to nurse the coffee he'd stopped to obtain from an all-night diner before getting too far away from the hotel. He sips at it casually, pulling forward as a man on the road uses his flashlight to direct him. Closer to the military blockade, several familiar Humvees are parked on the opposing side of concrete barriers. There's no way around the blockade except through them. Vincent stops, reaching down with a free hand to lower the window, allowing the man to shine the flashlight inside the front and back for a quick inspection.

"Good morning, sir. Got an ID on you?" The younger man, clearly a low rank grunt assigned to the blockade, lowers his body to bring himself eye-to-eye with Vincent. Clearly fresh out of boot camp judging by his rank, the youth is bright eyed and gleeful, a rarity for a military that is keen to break down and build back up every man that is accepted into the fold.

"Yeah." Vincent digs into his pocket for his wallet. "Little much for a DUI checkpoint, don't you think?"

"We're just making sure everyone gets to where they need to go." The young man chuckles and accepts the ID from Vincent. "Mister Richard Price?" He shines the flashlight over the ID, up at Vincent, then back down again. "What brings you through these parts, Mister Price?"

"Goin' to visit my kids." Vincent offers after stealing a sip from his coffee. "Wife divorced me ages ago, it's one of those rare times I get to spend time with them, you know? We're going camping."

"I see." The young man considers the ID a bit longer, then hands it back to Vincent. "Do you have anything in the trunk, Mister Price?"

"Just some camping and hiking gear."

"Is that all I'll find back there? I won't find anything unusual, right?"

"Unless you find spare tires to be unusual, kid," Vincent muses, calmly slipping the ID back into his wallet. He reaches down, popping the trunk. "Go nuts."

The young man nods and calmly turns to step out of sight, audibly rummaging through the contents of the trunk. After a few tense moments, the young man closes the trunk and returns to Vincent's window. "Sorry about that. Alright, you're free to go, Mister Price. Just keep in mind that there's been seismic activity around here recently, so you won't be allowed to camp or hike anywhere near here until we've deemed it safe again."

"Noted." Vincent lifts a hand up to tip his hat slightly. "Thanks for the info."

The young man nods, and stands tall, waving the flashlight. "Let him through." The only non-concrete barrier - one made of plastic and easily moved - is lifted by one of the other soldiers on duty and moved out of the way to allow Vincent to drive through. He lets out a sigh of relief once he's far enough past the blockade, licking his lips to wet them as his hand fumbles around the relative darkness for his cupholder, only the time display on his radio providing meager illumination to guide him. With a soft curse, after much fumbling, Vincent gives up and simply decides to hold on to his coffee instead.

After a brief stop to look at his map, Vincent soon finds the start of the trail he had been looking for and finds a secluded part of the trail to park his vehicle, hiding it from view. Once he's sure no one is following him, he climbs out and pops the trunk. Already dressed for the hike, Vincent simply throws the hiking pack over his shoulder like a backpack, closes the trunk, and heads down the trail with little more than a flashlight to guide him. He slows his pace as the trail's elevation takes him into the mountains, but he only goes high enough to see over the trees. Off in the distance, he spots bright lights through the treeline, washing over a specific area of the mountains. Confirming it with his binoculars, and then the general direction with a compass, Vincent climbs back down to ground level and starts to blaze his own path through the forest in the direction of those lights.

He keeps his flashlight low to the ground, not wanting to catch the attention of anyone who might be in the forest, but his fears are unwarranted. It's not until he gets close enough to see a trickle of light through the trees does he notice a set of flashlights walking slowly along what he can only assume is barbed wire fence created by the military for the area. They're close enough that he can hear their voices speaking casually, but not clearly. He turns off his flashlight and kneels, watching them. A routine patrol; their demeanor and tone prove that he hasn't been spotted, but in an overabundance of caution, he waits for them to be further down the road before continuing.

The only barrier between himself and whatever is creating the flood of light is a chain link fence, topped with razor wire and a thick, smoky plastic. Just enough to let light through, but not enough to let him see what's happening on the other side.

Producing a hunting knife from his pack, Vincent carefully pokes a hole in the plastic and gently secures it in his hand as it crumples noisily against the gentle breeze. Through it, he can see scores of government vehicles, and a large, concrete facility that looks as though it's been there for at least a handful of years already. A lot of the facility's many lights are pointed directly at the mountain, but many spotlights are also aiming into the base itself. Though he can't see well through the plastic, he spots troop movement toward what he can only guess is a tunnel leading into the mountain.

Moving slowly around the fence in the direction of the mountain, Vincent takes brief pauses to poke holes into the plastic blocking his view through the chain link fence, taking in anything he can see with such a limited field of view. With the forest at his back, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a voice behind him.

"Mr. Callahan."

Turning around quickly, knife in hand, Vincent only stops his movement when he spots the rifle in the man's hand.

"Uh uh, I suggest you drop that knife." The man motions with his rifle.

"Hagan?" Slowly, Vincent tosses the knife aside, and raises his hands up, keeping his eyes on the tall, blonde haired First Lieutenant.

"You remember me," Michael chuckles gently, his lips curling into a smile. "I suspect you're aware of how many years in prison you'll get for trespassing on military property?"

"Vaguely." Vincent licks his lips and stares at the barrel of the rifle. "Are you the only one out here?"

Michael tilts his head slightly. "Not for much longer. I've already notified security personnel. I just need to keep you here for a little while. I don't think you'll try anything funny while I've got a rifle aimed at your chest."

"Look, I got a little lost. I was just doing a bit of stargazing. Looking for UFO's, that type of thing. You know?"

Michael chuckles. "I didn't take you for an enthusiast."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about hobbies," Vincent frowns.

"No, I don't think I do."

"Neither do I, actually. But hey, since you've got me here, mind if I grab a drink from my canteen? I'm parched from all this hiking."

Michael quietly considers this for a moment, as if to try to gauge and predict what Vincent might do with the canteen once he has it in his possession, before he motions with the rifle. "Fine. Slowly. Don't try anything stupid."

Reaching back slowly, Vincent unclips the canteen from his pack and pulls it around to his front. He uncaps it and takes a few slow swigs of the precious liquid. "Thanks."

Michael raises his arm to check on his wristwatch. "Any minute now. You're going to be locked up for a long time. Least I can do is let you drink some water."

Vincent shakes his head and sighs. "You know, I figured you were an asshole, guess I was wrong."

"What can I say? I like to prove people wrong," Michael smiles, gently motioning toward Vincent with the rifle again. "Cap it and put it back."

Following orders, Vincent caps the canteen, but just as he does so, a loud klaxon sounds behind him. A sort of alarm. Michael, distracted, looks past Vincent. "Shit."

Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet buckles violently, throwing both men off balance. Recovering first, Vincent stands up and throws his canteen toward Michael, the impact to his head forcing the already unbalanced man to fall backward. Taking advantage of this, Vincent closes the distance between them, kicking the rifle from Michael's hand.

Michael, now unarmed, retaliates by running into Vincent and shoving him into the ground. Once both men are down, Michael wrestles with Vincent for control of his knife. As the knife rolls away due to the hiatus, Vincent bites into Michael's hand.

Before Michael can verbally protest, Vincent levels a fist right into the other man's jaw, sending him plummeting backwards. He lets out a curse from the poorly aimed, poorly thrown punch, nursing his hand for a moment as he tries to desperately keep his balance.

Vincent gets up and tackles the startled man, wrestling him to the ground once more. But he suddenly feels a sharp pain on his lower abdomen. He looks down, only to see that Michael has struck him with a sharp rock. As he's preparing to counter, Michael throws a jab, sending him into a blur. Then, an elbow slams his right eye, causing him to fall back in his stupor.

With his face now bleeding, Vincent quickly backs away to escape the onslaught and struggles to stay balanced on his feet.

"What's the matter, detective?" Michael walks quickly at him, picking him up by the shoulders and kicking him violently into a nearby tree. "Getting too old for this?"

Vincent takes the direct hit, making him lose his balance completely. Slamming into the tree, he can feel a part of his back going numb from the pain. He frowns as he stares at his attacker. "If I were twenty years younger, you wouldn't have gotten up from that hit."

"Give it up. You're outmatched. Don't make me kill you."

Michael approaches him with an extended hand, as if to help him up, but Vincent gets up and goes for his legs, pinning him down in a surprise pincer move.

"Now you're just pissing me off!" yells Michael as he grabs onto Vincent. They both wrestle for control, one going on top of the other, before Vincent grabs a sturdy rock laying on the ground nearby and jabs Michael on the head with it.

Michael takes the direct blow to the head, and begins to bleed. However, he doesn't let go and in retaliation begins to choke Vincent with both hands. Luckily, a second strike to the head seems to do the trick, rendering Michael fully unconscious.

Victorious, and exhausted, Vincent gets back on his feet. "I lied, by the way," he grunts, spitting on the other man in a show of defiance. "You're still an asshole."

The nearby fence has already had its posts uprooted and, lacking balance, the fence topples inward and outward in various places, granting Vincent entrance to a rapidly chaotic military installation. Carefully jumping over the razor wire rattling on the ground, still attached to the fence, Vincent's feet hit the ground but the buckling and cracking of the concrete now underfoot causes him to lose his balance and tumble right into the side of a set of floodlights. The impact is enough to force the floodlights to fall over, and since he winds up putting pressure on the wrong hand, the crash helps to censor the expletive Vincent shouts.

Turning his attention back toward the mountain, Vincent toughs out the pain in his body and heads in that direction. The troops seem to ignore him, rushing past him in a panic; none of them stop or slow to look back at him. Another violent upheaval sends Vincent stumbling forward, bringing his attention to a second shadow cast by the bright lights still functioning behind him. He turns around just in time to duck under the wild punch of the newly awakened, and very pissed off, Michael.

"My god, do you ever give up?"

"You're going to wish you had killed me," Michael sneers, enraged enough that he willingly ignores the chaos around them. He charges in like a bull again, but the ground's movement doesn't allow Vincent to move as he needs. This forces him to absorb the tackle, sending both men to the ground; the first punch from Michael scores a direct hit to his left cheek, but he manages to tilt his head to avoid the second punch. Michael lets out a pained cry as he punches the jagged concrete, slashing his knuckles open from the impact.

Vincent reaches up with his hands to grab Michael's uniform, pulling him down as he lifts himself up. In a much more successful strike, Vincent's forehead strikes the lieutenant square in the nose, making him reel back and, with sufficient motivation from Vincent, gets the younger man off of him. Climbing to his feet again, Vincent curls his fingers inward toward his palm, forming a fist. "I've fought tougher guys than you handing out tickets as a meter cop," he taunts the other man.

Still trying to regain his balance, Michael narrows his eyes, reaching a hand to brush away the drip of blood from his nose.

"Stay down, kid." Vincent smirks, moving in without further warning, leveling a vicious left jab that dazes Michael on impact, opening him up to a right hook that sends the man tumbling down in response to the ground's trembling.

Struggling to stand, Michael throws his hands up over his eyes in response to a rush of light that suddenly comes flooding down from the mountain side. A powerful rush of energy causes the top of the mountain to collapse in the distance, just as Vincent turns around to watch. From the peak, an enormous craft begins to rise from what was once tons of rock. Exactly as described by the kids back at Buckhorn Mountain; an enormous, grey submarine looking vessel. Even in the chaos, Vincent can make out the finer details of the craft. Its overall shape resembles a submarine for sure, but it's not at all the smooth and perfect design he had expected.

The craft slowly begins to turn as it rises, splitting through the clouds as it climbs higher into the sky. With a deafening crack, the ship takes off into the night sky, disappearing from sight. In less than a second, it has vanished from view. If not for the collapsed mountain that it left behind in its wake, there would have been no evidence of its departure. Vincent takes note that the ground had stopped heaving once the ship had left the mountain. Though, he doesn't get long to savor or think on what he'd just experienced.

"Hands up! Get on your knees!"

The rumble of several sets of boots and the audible click of gun safeties taken off causes Vincent to raise his hands above his head, slowly lowering to his knees in response. He stares off into space as his hiking pack is forcibly removed from his body. He puts up no resistance as his arms are forced behind his back and into handcuffs.

What in the world had he just witnessed?