“Hurry, over here!” yelled the Old Man into the howling blizzard at a distant figure pulling the sled, battling his way through the seemingly endless snow. He was standing in front of the outpost with a flare in his hands, waving as if his life depended on it.

A man in his late twenties finally arrived on a pair of skis, wearing standard issue polar equipment given to Search and Rescue members. He removed the polar mask protecting his face from frostbite.

“Where are the others?!” he asked loudly, but the wind swallowed the sound. Old Man murmured something, gesturing to come inside with his hand. He nodded and released the sled, detached his boots from the skis, and followed the senior upstairs into the station. Old Man pressed the doors against the wind, closing them with a solid thump.

“Sure glad to see a soul around here,” said Old Man with a rough voice, shaking off the snow from his fuzzy, gray beard. “Are ya all they sent for help?”

“No,” said the guest, catching his breath, “others are on the way. We got separated when the storm intensified.” He glanced around the room as if searching for someone.

Old Man sighed, “It’s just you and me, lad.” He hung his coat and extended his hand towards the table.

“Take a seat. I bet me old bones it’ll be hours until the storm dwindles.” He frowned and said, “might as well tell ya what the hell is going on. I didn’t catch yer name, lad.”

“Uhh,” the guest fumbled and said, “it’s John.”

“Well, lad,” dismissed Old Man, “make yerself comfortable. I’ll prepare the kettle.”

The howling wind was piercing the silence. John removed his gloves and scanned around. He found himself sitting in a white, medium-sized common room with a table in the center and kitchen elements on the other side. Up to four people could be hosted comfortably. A coarse rug was under the table, soaking the moisture from his ski boots. Television, radio, the picture on the wall, skis in the corner, and even a rum bottle with a pair of drinking glasses aside were nicely ordered. The room appeared pretty clean for a busy science outpost.

“We received your distress call,” said John, turning his head to the kitchen. “Tell me what happened. Where is everyon—”

“They’re dead,” uttered Old Man out of the blue. John squinted his eyes, waiting to hear what comes next. Old Man turned around, holding a cup and a steaming kettle by the handle. “No one can survive out in a storm like this.”

“They might still be out there?”

“Their bodies, aye,” grunted Old Man while taking a seat. “We got blindsided by the sudden change in weather. Never seen something like it, I tell ya.” He poured the hot liquid into the cup and passed it to John. “Here, this will warm ya up, lad.”

John grabbed the hot cup with his hands. A burning sensation permeated his fingers, so he adjusted his grip just enough to soak in the warmth. He stared back into the eyes as Old Man placed the kettle beside him and continued.

“Me, Morison, Falkner, and Brown went our usual route to study the magnetic north. Few days ago, our equipment detected unusual activity, as if the magnetic north started spinning in circles. If y’know anything, magnetic poles have been moving faster as of late, but still slowly over the course of decades.”

Old Man leaned forward with his eyes wide open and exclaimed, “But this?! This was like a car moving at light speed. Sensors showed no signs of error, but there had to be a fault — we needed to check it with our own eyes. So that’s what we did, aye.”

John started turning the cup with his fingers. “All four of you?” he wondered.

“Aye, all four of us,” instantly replied Old Man. “When yer stuck on this floating ice cube, in this god-forsaken hut with a bunch of bitter men for so long, these kinds of findings make ya quite excited.”

A brief silence ensued. The wind was still howling outside, with no sign of stopping. An electric lamp above the kitchen sink buzzed in the background.

“Anyway,” continued Old man, “we packed our things and went the route up north, over the frozen sea. However, around halfway there we noticed our toolbox was missing. Must've fallen into the snow somewhere along the trail. Me and Brown decided to trek back and retrieve the box, as we always travel in pairs. Ye never know what might happen. I’ve seen people venture all on their own, only to get swallowed by the snow, or fall into an ice crack — never to be seen again.

“That’s when it happened. On our way back, all of a sudden, a fierce wind started blowing, followed by thick snow. Brown urged me to return while he would go back and wait for Falkner and Morison. He knew that the wind would cover all of our tracks and that those two would get lost.”

Old Man fondled his beard quickly. “He took a flare and set off north to find them. And that was the last time I saw Brown and the crew. I went back, barely made it, and sent a distress call. I admit ya lads came pretty quickly. Faster than usual, but not fast enough it seems.”

John was listening intently to his story. “Is there a possibility that they’re alive?” he inquired.

“Listen here, lad. The storm has been raging for a whole day now. I’ve lived long enough to see what cold does to a man out there, even when fully prepared.” He scoffed, “There’s no point in searching anymore.”

“Rescue team will decide that.”

“Nature”, interrupted Old man, “ultimately decides. Don’t ever forget that, greenhorn.”

Another awkward silence struck the conversation. John sensed he'll need to take a different approach to get some answers.

Old Man set his eyes on the drink John held in his hands. “What? Ye don’t like me brew? Take a sip, it’ll quench,” he paused briefly, “yer thirst.”

“Actually,” exclaimed John as he set his eyes on the bottle of rum, “I’m more of a liquor kind of guy. And I like to share a drink, especially in good company.”

Old Man raised his left eyebrow. “Ye don’t look like the type, lad,” he said bluntly.

John chuckled, “I sure don’t, do I?”

John stood up and reached for the bottle and pair of glasses with his fingers. He plucked the bottle cap, took a whiff with his nose, and poured two shots. He picked up the glasses and put one in front of the old man.

“It will be a while until the rescue team arrives,” John said, “but until then, all we can do is sit and wait. Tell me, what was Hugh Brown doing, before his last moments?”

Old Man lowered his left eyebrow. “What? Ya know him, lad?”

John realized he couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. “Yes.” He took a moment, and looked at the swirling liquor in his hands, trying to think something up.

“We were old drinking buddies back in the States when he worked in the university. Truth is… We didn’t stay in touch. Gossip travels fast around the drink and I’ve caught wind that his request to relocate up north got approved. However, I didn’t know it was to the North Point station.”

He raised his head and gazed directly into Old Man’s eyes. “I’m sure his relatives would like to know how he spent his last days. That’s why I ask.”

Old Man bellowed a stretched: “Hmmmmm.” With his hands crossed, he was seemingly recollecting his thoughts. After about ten seconds, he uttered, “Don’t know.”

“I’m sure you could remember at least something, good sir?”

“He was all into his research, sitting endlessly on the computer, plotting incoming streams of data and that sort of work. After a while, ya just stop noticing.”

“Well,” smirked John while putting his right hand into his pocket, “I’m sure he kept personal belongings somewhere. Mind telling me where that is, old man?”

Old Man widened his eyes. As he was about to make a move, John suddenly pulled out a gun from his pocket.

“Nuh-uh,” threatened John politely while holding the liquor and gun in his hands, “no sudden moves, gramps. You might strain your joints or something.”

Old Man was furious. “I knew ye were good for nothing the moment ya stepped inside,” he shouted, spitting all over the room.

“Yes,” agreed John with the senior, “it seems like my cover was blown. What gave it away?”

“The fact that ye came here alone and first asked where are all the others,” replied the old man angrily. “And then ya fumbled with yer made-up name. ‘Twas clear to me ye are no member of the rescue team. Ye must’ve intercepted the call and arrived here before them.”

“Quite keen observation for an old man,” John applauded. “It seems one’s faculties can get better with age. Never underestimate your elders.

“However, your methods are… how should I put it,” rambled John while looking for the right word, “archaic? Putting poison in the brew? That’s old-school, gramps.”

Old Man was fuming, seeing that the situation escalated against him. He needed to buy some time in hopes that the Search and Rescue team arrives before he gets killed.

“See,” John continued, wiggling his gun, “you made a few mistakes in your story. First, you fondle your beard conspicuously when you lie. Second, the agent that went under the persona of doctor Hugh Brown would never bother with such a heroic deed. That selfish bastard was on a mission to collect both data and the artifacts from the drill site, leaving no witnesses behind. From that moment on, I knew you disposed of him. We both know why.”

Tension filled the air as men stared at each other. John started stomping the carpet with his right boot. The wooden floor vibrated, giving the feeling that there was a hollow room underneath.

“I guess this answers the question ‘where’. The most intriguing question is ‘how’? How did my colleague get himself killed by a literal Santa Claus?” wondered John while bringing the liquor close to his mouth. “Could be poison? Well, not that it matters. What really matters is where he stashed that—”

“If ya pull the trigger,” Old Man cut the monologue sharply, “that secret goes with me.”

“You are right,” apologized John, “where are my manners, treating the elderly like that? Would you sir,” he pointed the gun and commanded, “kindly give me the alien artifact you’re hiding?”

Old Man swallowed a lump in his throat upon seeing John. He was acquainted with cold-blooded, killer looks that show no mercy and this fellow clearly wasn’t joking around. He assessed the situation, drawing from the reservoir of his vast experience to decide the next course of action. Running out of time and options, he decided to risk everything. Slowly, he raised his right hand.

“Alright, lad, ya win,” he conceded and moved his hand towards the pocket.

“No funny tricks, grandpa,” threatened John, holding his aim down the sight. “Whatever it is, just put it on the table… slowly.”

As he gently grabbed a spherical object in his pocket, Old Man swiped his finger over its metallic surface, pulled it out quickly, and threw it toward John.

“Son of a—“ shouted John and fired a round at the Old man. At that same instant, a series of events unfolded: a high-pitched sound pierced the room, and the bullet violently curved mid-air and hit the flying metallic ball, nudging its trajectory to the side. John’s gun escaped from his fingertips and flew towards the flying ball along with the steaming kettle, television, radio, and all the kitchen utensils. Four chairs with the table accelerated and Old Man was dislodged by the pull, falling to the floor. Because his chair was pressing from behind and his boots from below, all of these objects smashed under the immense magnetic force and formed a mass that hit John in the torso.

John got struck with such intensity that he became breathless. The steaming kettle and its contents smacked his nose, breaking it and inflicting first-degree burns all over his face. Television and radio came from the side, smashing his left shoulder violently. He groaned in immense pain and fell along with the mass to the floor.

Old Man quickly turned and looked around. The ceiling was slightly bending under the magnetic pull. His coat hanging near the entrance was floating at 45 degrees angle. The entrance door seemingly stood in place, for now. As Old Man slowly got up, John was catching his breath.

“P-piece of shit,” whined John in excruciating pain, trying to resist the pull.

Old Man dusted off his pants, took a stand, and looked toward John. “Looks like tables have turned, lad.”

“Very funny, gramps!” seethed John through his teeth, trying to open his burnt eyes.

“Y’see, Americans aren’t the only ones snooping around and gathering Intel.” Old Man sat next to John, looking him directly in the face. “Ye made the mistake when ya judged me as a feeble, ol’ man. I was a secret service agent for Her majesty while ye were shitting in yer diapers.”

“…You,” realized John, “also intercepted the distress call and came before me?!”

“Aye. Might as well tell ya what really happened, before I leave yer body for bears to feast upon.”

John tried to grab Old Man’s leg in rage several times with his left hand, but he was just short of doing so.

“Yer buddy,” continued Old Man, stroking his thick beard, “killed those scientists on the spot when they drilled up that object. That’s me assumption since he returned alone that day. He was fiddling on the computer when I sneak attacked with me trusty nylon garrote. ‘Twas a hard catch; he trashed the whole room trying to free himself. Cleaned most of it, but I won’t be fixing this mess — that’s for sure.”

John’s pain slowly receded. He recovered from the impact and could breathe somewhat, but his body was still locked between the objects. His hands were free, but ski boots immobilized his legs and the chair was still pressing from behind under the immense magnetic pull. He was glued to the mass of furniture and kitchen utensils, but they weren’t that heavy compared to his body mass.

“After he dropped dead, I realized he sent a distress call. It screwed up me plan, but it didn’t matter. Yes, that’s what real men do,” confirmed Old man, “we adapt to the situation and deal with it.”

John spat blood and laughed, “Hah, I’d love to see you say that in my position.”

“Listen, lad. The gambit paid off,” said the Old man condescendingly. “Me chances were slim, so I was prepared to die. On the other hand, ye are just a greenhorn, wet behind yer ears — should've killed me the moment ya pulled out that gun. Now, hold still while I put yer lights out.”

John started laughing even harder, almost to the point of crying.

Old Man made a confused face and asked, “What’s so funny, eh?”

“Look above, you senile fool!”

He glanced upwards. The ceiling was slightly bent. Subtle crackling and slow twisting of metal were audible. Coldness started creaking through the fractures on the walls. The kitchen sink was dislodged but stuck in place. Entrance doors also started making twisted metal sounds.

A bloody smile stretched across John’s face. “If the station doesn’t kill us when it collapses, the rescue helicopter surely will!”

Range of the magnetic pull extended over the whole room. Old Man’s jacket was still gravitating towards the mass, suspended in the air. Suddenly, the realization struck him. He fucked up. Big time. And both men were aware of it.

“Alright, lad. I fucked up,” admitted Old Man as he stroked his beard again.

“Hah,” exclaimed John triumphantly, “told you so, old timer!”

“That’s why I’ll need yer help.”

John believed he misheard what his senior said. “The what?”

“Didn’t I say it? Real men adapt to the situation and deal with it.” He stopped stroking his beard and looked at John with determination. “Right now, we have to turn this bloody thing off. Unless ya want us to become toast.”

John liked the idea. Not only will he escape the deadlock and free himself, but turn things around, kill the Old man and escape with the artifact. And leave the British secret service to explain the mess that unfolded. Genius! But, John knew the old bastard is sly and will anticipate any foul move. He needs to be one step ahead and play the game old-school style.

“How can you be sure I won’t kill you once I am free?” asked John in a serious tone, responding with the same eye contact as the senior.

“I can’t,” responded Old Man, expecting such a question, “but it’s the risk I have to take. The alternative is zero percent success rate.”

John sniggered at Old Man’s response but said nothing. It felt like interacting with an agent out of Hollywood movies; calculated, procedural, assertive, charismatic, true to himself, and most of all — very pragmatic. It was something John aspired to in his early days in service when he was young and naive. He thought being a secret service agent was glamorous and thrilling. Throughout the years’ excitement vanished as he was struck with the realities of the job, surrounded by mediocrity. Seeing this man, he realized the potential he squandered by slacking off over the years. He became mediocre like the people he despised. And that thought annoyed him deeply.

“Listen carefully now, lad,” continued Old man, “that device activates when ya slide the finger over its surface. And it turns off when ya slide it in reverse. Ye can fine-tune the strength, so ya need to go all the way. I can help dislodge a few objects, but ye have to stick yer finger and flick it off.”

“Hmph, sounds easy enough for me,” concluded John. “But I’m not so sure about you, gramps. You look out of shape.”

Old Man spat on his palms and rubbed them thoroughly. “Watch me, lad.”

He approached the mass of objects. After close inspection, Old Man grabbed the bent table and placed his right foot on John’s left shoulder.

“Hey, hey!” protested John angrily. He suffered a blow on this side when TV and radio struck him, and it was painful when pressed. One thing was noticeable: that foot had strength in it.

Old Man discarded the comment and made a serious face. “Now! Hnngh!”

Contrary to John’s expectations, the table started to separate. Old Man growled with a constipated expression. It looked like steam would start blowing out of his ears any second.

John realized if gramps was to suddenly let go, his hands will get crushed under the collapse. But words of Old Man about risk-taking echoed through his mind. He seized the opportunity and started searching with his fingers. He couldn’t see with his eyes due to the obstacles in front of him, only with the touch of his fingers. Nothing he touched matched the description of a round metallic object.

“Hnngh, hurry!” the Old Man cried as he was reaching his limit.

“Gimme a second!” barked John, visibly at the edge of panic. Finally, something metallic and round reached the tips of his fingers. He flicked the surface — nothing happened. He flicked again in the opposite direction and the magnetic pull instantly disappeared. Old Man lost his balance and fell down with the table he was pushing. John grabbed the alien ball, pushed aside other objects, and made a backflip, getting into a crouching position.

John picked up the nearest kitchen knife and threw it at the Old man. The knife was slicing the air, heading straight toward the head. Old Man spotted the flying projectile and leaned back, cutting the tip of his thick beard.

“Me trusty beard!” he snapped.

John rolled to the side, picking up various kitchen utensils from the floor. He spun around like a dancer, throwing a salvo of forks and knives at his opponent with astonishing precision.

Old Man quickly picked up the table beneath and threw himself on his butt. Utensils pierced the sturdy table, demonstrating the sheer force his opponent carried. Cold sweat ran down Old Man’s forehead — this lad is a monster. He moved the table to the side, but John was nowhere to be seen; only loud thumps against the wooden floor could be heard.

In that instant, he turned around and saw John swinging a vegetable knife, aiming for his head. In Old Man’s experience, time slowed down and everything became gray as he waited for the right moment. He clapped the incoming blade with his hands, stopping it just above his forehead.

“Wha—“, said John just as the Old man twisted the blade and kicked him in the plexus, launching him five feet away. As John was briefly flying in the air, he realized the same strength he noticed when the Old man pressed his shoulder with his leg. He took his opponent too lightly. He landed on his butt and the artifact slipped out of his pocket. It started rolling away from John.

John noticed this and reached for the alien ball, only to withdraw his fingers at the last second. A vegetable knife sliced the floor out of nowhere and flicked the alien artifact further away across the room.

“Circus is over, lad,” said Old Man, claiming victory over his foe.

“Not bad, gramps,” agreed John with his opponent, “but not so fast!”

As the tension from the battle subsided, both men looked around the room. They both heard, without a doubt, helicopter propellers slicing the air. The rescue team has arrived.

While his enemy was looking around, John snatched the opportunity, did a barrel roll, and picked up the knife. He performed a stylish flip jump and flung the blade directly at the Old man’s throat.

Old Man saw the acrobatics in his peripheral vision and crouched, evading the projectile. At that same moment, the rescue team opened the door and the flying blade struck the first member directly in the forehead, gouging his eyes out of their sockets. The poor fellow dropped dead instantly.

“Aaaah!” screamed the second rescue team member in terror, took a step back, slipped, and fell down the stairs into the snow.

“Fuck’s sake,” shrugged Old Man at the sight. He heard boots thumping against the wooden floor, quickly turned around, and saw John running towards the artifact in the corner of the room. He knew this would hurt, but there was no other option. With all his strength, Old Man kicked the nearby kettle with his left foot. Appearing almost squished mid-air, the kettle was violently spinning towards John.

Just as John was about to grab the artifact, something heavy smacked his head, rendering him unconscious.

…

…

…

With a pulsating headache emitting from his right cheek, John returned to his senses. His hands were tied to a bent radio emitter frame, just outside the North Point station. He couldn’t correctly open his eyes from the blinding white light around him. Through squinted eyes, he saw what looked like a Search and Rescue helicopter nearby. He turned his head to the sound of someone threading in the snow. A mysterious white figure was slowly approaching.

“Oh, I see you’re awake,” said a warm voice. Different, yet somewhat familiar.

John finally opened his eyes as his vision adjusted to the bright white field of snow. A person was wearing a white polar jacket with a furry hood around his face, limping slightly, swinging his left foot as he moved. John had the impression of someone he had met before. The person was carrying a bottle of rum and a couple of glasses.

“Y-you?!” screamed John after the realization.

“Took you a while, huh,” said the Man calmly, using his natural accent, without his realistic old skin mask and fake beard. He looked like an adult male well into his mid-forties, with striking brows and a clean shave. “You fell for the most obvious trick in the book. You have to give credit, though; the performance was stellar, wasn’t it?”

John was freezing, snot running down his nose. That’s why he had so much strength in him, he thought — he wasn’t old in the first place! John wasn’t surprised. He was pissed. In a sudden rage, John tried to wrestle the shackles and strangle the Man, but he couldn’t feel his limbs, only a numb, uncomfortable chilling sensation. All extremities — especially hands — began to succumb to frostbite.

“Luckily,” the senior agent went on, “I brought some change of clothes with me. My old gear wouldn’t cut it for the long trek into the fields of snow. All the equipment is toast; computers, cameras, and their footage are rendered useless by the magnetic field we activated. Data is—poof—gone, too. Every silicon in the building was affected.”

John didn’t pay much attention to the Man. Instead, dread overcame his whole body. This is it…? Is this how it all ends? A desperate attempt to live emerged. He started breathing audibly and quickly, shaking his body to warm himself up.

“Too bad my old man’s clothes don’t fit you. It would’ve made things simpler for me. You’re a tad leaner, unfortunately,” said the Man.

He popped off the rum bottle cap, started pouring the brown liquid, and continued, “I’ve rearranged a few things on the scene. Hopefully, investigators will arrive and pin the whole mess on your lifeless, frozen body. I’d kill you myself, but I reckon nature has to do that instead. Now that the whole thing escalated, I wasn’t here, remember?”

John shook his head and screamed, “Aaaaah!”

Senior agent smirked and placed one rum shot in front of John.

“Rum was not poisoned.” He inspected his glass, then looked back at John. “Also, what’s wrong with poisons? Very effective, even today. If something persisted for thousands of years, that means it clearly works. Well, cheers, mate.”

“I will find you,” spouted John through frozen teeth, “a-and I will murder y-you!”

The Man drank his shot, let out a good sigh, and smiled. “Good luck with that, chap. Oh!” he raised his eyebrows, “almost forgot.”

He went behind John and untied his hands.

“It would be troublesome if investigators find you all tied up,” said the senior agent.

John tried to move, but his limbs didn’t listen well. All he got was a constant tingling, painful sensation in his hands and feet. At most, he could move them in a general direction without the usual precision.

The Man placed his drinking glass into one of the pockets, put his fake beard back on, attached the skis, grabbed John’s sled, and started pulling towards the white abyss on the horizon. He tossed a farewell back to John in his Old man’s grumpy, hoarse voice.

“So long, lad. Stay frosty.”

John watched as the figure walked into the distance. This is what utter defeat looked like. He was outclassed in every front by his opponent. He thought this would be a walk in the park. Taking all the credit for completing the mission that his colleague almost ruined. Oh, the sheer hubris that was on display. His eyes teared up just a bit. He replayed the whole series of events in his head, analyzing where he had done wrong. Old Man’s hoarse voice flashed throughout his mind: “You should have killed me the moment you pulled out that gun.”

Kneeling in the snow, cold tightening the grip over his battered body, John stared nowhere in particular. Suddenly, he noticed the glass of rum the Man had left in front of him.

“…Not yet,” he whispered.

John bent over the glass, picked it up with his mouth, and drank the shot. He spat the empty glass to the side. A sudden sense of heat permeated his stomach and throughout his whole body. John roared with all his power as he stood on his shaky legs. “Not yet, Old man!”

…

…

…

“Good evening, this is RNN news,” said the male news anchor on TV. “Shocking news about the unlikely mass murder at the North Pole.”

The female anchor followed up, “Two Search and Rescue members—one dead, one missing; all while the search for the scientists is still ongoing. The station is, according to unofficial sources,” she paused and read the line, “wrecked — with damages amounting to millions of dollars.”

The male anchor flicked the papers in his hands. “Investigation is underway,” he sighed, “and details from officials are scarce. Countries involved are firing shots and pointing fingers at each other. Is an international scandal looming over the horizon? More in the following segment.”

The screen panned to a blond Interpol officer wearing a blue shirt and tie. He addressed the audience in his funny foreign accent. “Around 4 p.m., a distress call was sent from the North Point station. Standard Search and Rescue procedure was initiated, but because of bad weather, the rescue was postponed until the storm dwindled.”

He swallowed a dry throat and said, “We are still investigating the crime scene. There is ample evidence that violence took place. Scientists’ whereabouts are still unknown, and we are looking for the missing rescue personnel. While North Point station is remote, we cannot rule out the involvement of a third party. We will keep you updated; thank you.”

The screen then panned to another press conference. An old politician with gray hair spoke with mild annoyance in his voice.

“Investigation is underway.” He pointed both thumbs at himself and continued, “Our finest agents are doing the fieldwork in step with Interpol to uncover this heinous crime. We also dismiss the rumors that one of our intelligence operatives is involved with the incident. Thank you.”

The Man turned off the TV with his remote. He laid back with his shirt open on a heavy mahogany sofa, with a busty brunette in his embrace.

“What’s the matter, honey?” asked the beautiful woman, gently caressing his hairy chest.

“Nothing, dear,” he dismissed.

Three things bothered the Man. Three things he couldn’t get off his mind.

First, there was the question of missing rescue personnel. He killed the poor guy that fell in the snow by smashing his head with the kettle. He thought there was no other way as no witnesses were allowed. He dragged his lifeless body inside the base and rearranged a few things to make it seem like he fought John tooth and nail but lost. According to the news, one rescue team member is missing—and they didn’t specify which one.

Second, a question pertaining to John. Did he manage to escape? Or did he freeze somewhere in a ditch, never to be found? Even though unlikely, if he mustered enough strength, he could’ve hidden somewhere in cargo, or below the wooden floor with the body of Doc Brown. Perhaps he found a way to hide in the rescue helicopter and is on his way to the land. Also, did he rearrange the scene and move the bodies around? If he is still alive, will he seek revenge as he said? Will the Man have to sleep with his one eye open for the rest of his life?

And final question, the most perplexing of all — why did the other agent impersonating Doc Brown send off the distress call? It made no sense because it attracted a lot of attention to an otherwise secret operation. John was anyway waiting for him as a backup. Why was Brown compelled to press that button? Why did he risk the integrity of the mission? Unless, when he returned from the site… there was a reason to call for help…?

The Man picked up a nearby glass filled with old whiskey reserved for special occasions. Ice cubes stirring in the glass reminded him of the North Pole… He quickly drank the liquid—bottoms up—to wash the shivers of dread that went down his spine.