Pain.

Of all his senses, that seemed to be the only one left. Pain, throbbing steadily under the fog that smothered his thoughts. He strained to recall what had caused it—something about a fire. No, not a fire-an explosion. He'd felt it as much as seen it, the force that had scattered him and his comrades. They'd only had a second's warning before the missile hit. He'd thought the flames were the biggest danger. He hadn't realized the force an explosion had, tossing grown men into the air like rag dolls and sending debris and shrapnel everywhere…

Remembering was difficult. The fog blurred his thoughts, whirled them out of his reach even as he grasped at them. It would be so much easier to stop struggling—to let all thought go and allow the fog to envelop him. Something in the back of his mind told him this was a bad idea. He agreed with that; he didn't want to let go. But it was so hard to stay alert… and every second, the fog became thicker…

"Medic! Over here!"

Was that a voice? Or just his imagination? He really wasn't sure anymore. A harsh sound penetrated the fog, the crunch of heavy boots trudging through gravel.

"Is he alive?"

"Move over, let me scan 'im."

Not one, but two voices. Too loud and clear to be his imagination. Allies, then? It sounded like it—the first voice was gruff, but a note of concern ran through it. Not something you'd expect from an enemy.

One of the voices—the softer one, he thought—let out a hiss of empathy. "The sooner this war ends, the better. Look at this kid, he can't be more than eighteen. He shouldn't be on a battlefield."

"Nobody should be on a battlefield." The first voice muttered. "Is he still alive or not?"

"He is—for now. But his neck's fractured; even if he survives, it's never gonna heal right."

There was a long pause.

"Can we transport him without causing further damage?"

"Maybe—I'll be honest, though, chief, I think his fighting days are over."

"Maybe. But he deserves a chance."

A jumble of shouted orders echoed through his mind. The gravel around him shifted as someone knelt down.

"All right, get him onto the stretcher—carefully!"

Pain stabbed through his mental haze like a red-hot poker. He let out an involuntary grunt, the only response he could make to the torment. Even as the pain seared his thoughts, however, he felt a pressure on his hand—and a gruff voice speaking softly.

"Hang in there, kid."

He awoke to bright light. He blinked dazedly, wondering if he'd died and this was what heaven looked like. That theory was soon vetoed as he caught the scent of antiseptic. The medical ward, then—so he'd survived.

He turned his head to look around and winced at the movement. His whole neck ached. Not just his neck, but his chest and lungs, too. He reached up to feel his throat—and froze. A layer of bandages was there, but underneath them, where there should have been flesh, his fingers felt the smooth hardness of metal. The metal seemed to go all the way around his neck and partway down his chest and back. What had happened to him?

His cot creaked as he gingerly sat up. He was definitely in the medical ward. The cot he was lying on was surrounded by curtains, though he could see people walking back and forth through the gaps.

"Hello?" He rasped. Speaking felt odd—like he was taking through a metal pipe. Which, considering the state of his neck, might be exactly what was happening. The curtains parted and a medic stepped in, followed by a man in armor. The patient straightened up instinctively, heart pounding. That was General Duncan, Captain Randor's second-in-command. What was he doing here?

"Feeling all right?" the general asked, his tone friendly. The boy nodded, ignoring the ache in his neck.

"His vitals are stable," the medic said, running a quick scan over his body. "The cybernetics seem to be integrating successfully."

"Cybernetics?" The patient eyed the general. Though Duncan's expression didn't change, his eyes held a remorseful look.

"I'm afraid you were injured badly in the last battle," the general explained. "Your neck and spine were damaged. I was able to repair them with cybernetic upgrades, but the surgery was fairly extensive. It'll take some getting used to."

The patient rubbed his neck again, marveling at the feel of the metal. He had a mechanical neck now? That didn't even bother him as much as the question on his mind now. "Thank you, sir, but…why go to trouble? Cybernetics are expensive; I'm only a foot soldier."

"I don't believe anyone is 'only' anything." The general admonished gently. "Your life is a valuable as the life of the highest-ranking officer." Duncan met his gaze. "What's your name, son?"

"Private Michael Aldisson, sir. Regiment Theta."

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen, sir." Michael hesitated only briefly before saying it. He'd told that lie so often since enlisting that he was beginning to believe it. Duncan eyed him calculatingly—for a moment, Michael thought the general would call him out on the falsehood. But he merely nodded.

"Eighteen is young. You have a lot of years left in your life, private. You may be a foot soldier now, but who knows what the future holds?" The general fixed him with a piercing gaze, like he was looking into Michael's very soul. "I've given you another chance at life—now go out and do something great with it."

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