Hello once more, faithful readers! I'm glad to see that you've either taken interest in my story because you've made it all the way to the second chapter! What an incredible feat! :P Sorry, its really early in the morning and I just woke up and can't fall back asleep so I figured I would write the author's note that I was going to write after school and publish. AAH Run on sentence.

OK. Something I have to address. I think I said this before, but I just want to make it clear. This story, like any traditional CoD, switches point of view pretty much every chapter. It's going to heavily favor Logan and Hesh, but keep that in mind. I have not and hopefully will not receive and rage on me introducing OC's, which I don't do this chapter, but will in the future.

Also, please don't rage at me for varying chapter lengths. I don't see why anyone would, but I guarantee someone will have a problem with it eventually. Some chapters will be long, and some will be shorter, like this one. Please understand that, and don't call it a lack of effort. And for reference, chapters probably won't be longer than what we saw last chapter. That was long.

And thank you to everyone who put in the effort to review! Every little bit counts, and I really appreciate it if you were one of those who stopped to write out what you thought about my story. That said, thanks to everyone who's actually sticking with the story, everyone who followed and favorited either me or the story. Like I said, everything counts, and I'm thankful for every little bit guys! :D Now, the responses!

MasterDerp5885 - Thanks! I thought that the archive needed one too, and I got the idea and figured that I could help out. :P With your question, are you talking about per chapter or chapters in the story? Per chapter, it will probably range from this length to the length of chapter 1. In the whole story, however, I'm not certain. I'm not completely done with planning out the story, but it will be in a range of 25-40 chapters. XD Wide range, but so be it.

Cab00se12 - I'm glad to see you enjoyed the first chapter so much, considering that in my opinion it was a bunch of boring talking! As I said in the author's note, the point of view is going to switch around a bunch, but mainly focus on Logan and Hesh. So I guess that you're in for a treat. :D

kiarainu - Thanks very much, and, well, here's the next chapter for you. :P May I ask, what does that insignia after your review mean? I'm too tired to open up another page and look it up on Google Translate.

Beawolf's Pen - Thanks for the solid opinion! I realize that there was a lot of talking at the beginning, but I think I needed to explain a lot of stuff before the action starts next chapter. And yeah, I'll try to keep up my spelling and grammar. I don't think I'm illiterate, but I do make mistakes every once in a while. Thanks for the pointers!

Amy - Well, I'm glad to hear that! I'm certainly going to keep writing because I love to write, but thanks for the extra inspiration! :P

Well, that's the five reviews that had come through by the time I'm writing this. I really didn't expect five reviews on the first chapter, guys. Thanks a whole, whole lot for the support and I hope to continue to see it! Five reviews is just outstanding, from what I gather. :D

Anyways, without any other further drama or me rumbling on in reviews, here is chapter 2!

The Ghost Captor
Somewhere in the Amazon
July 9th, 04:52:46
Logan Walker

In the darkness, there is nothing to see for a long time. The world I see is like an endless blot of black ink, with no end in sight. There are swirls of the ink, constantly rippling around my vision, never procuring into shapes. Not for a while, at least.

After a long time, the ink swirls into a helicopter, its rotors thundering against the black sky. It passes over a thick rainforest, trees arching up unevenly and rivers cutting through the underbrush. The endless drone of the rotors buzzes at my ears, and my disembodied eyes follow it as it quickly flies over the black landscape.

"You're all alone now, Logan," a voice says, rippling through the ink world. "You don't know where you are, your saviors don't know where you are. You and I, we're all alone now."

That voice is the voice of the man who has destroyed my world, torn it apart and is now attempting to put it back together again in the same fashion that his captors did to him twelve years ago. "You would've been a hell of a Ghost," Rorke says in my head, echoing over and over again, like in every dream since my capture. "But there ain't gonna be any Ghosts. We're gonna destroy them together."

His southern twang makes me sick, and I instantly awake, the black ink swirling away in a flash, and my eyes open to an even sicker reality. I'm lying on my back, at the bottom of a pit. The ground is slick with mud, and water trickles down the sides of the small hole in the ground. A bamboo fence covers the top of it, which is now being lifted up. Two men, dressed in Federation uniforms and carrying submachine guns. "Out!" one of the yells down at me, while the other grabs my arm and struggles to pull me up the side.

Luckily, the soldier had wrenched my left arm, the uninjured one. My right arm was still broken, in a hard cast that set it into position. The soldier pulled me harder, and I dug my shoes into the side of the pit to help myself up onto even ground. Rain pelts down through the trees, and thunder crackles in the distance. The Amazon is a common place for thunderstorms, and one seems to be rolling over at the present time.

A foot hits my face, and I suddenly slam back onto my back, still on higher ground, but now I probably have a bruise on my face. A bag goes over my head, and I can't see anything now, but the guards begin dragging me on my knees, pulling my arms. I force myself not to scream; the pain in my arm is excruciating. I will not say a word, though. They can't break me, I tell myself.

I can hear many different soldiers barking orders in Spanish, which I don't understand for the most part. The ground beneath my legs, which was gravel before, turns to cement, and eventually a voice tells me to stand. I'm continuously led on, arms not holding onto me anymore, but rather the barrel of a gun pressed against the small of my back.

Eventually, the gun is released from its position on my back, and the bag is torn from my head. I'm thrown to the ground, and water starts spraying on me before I can realize what is happening to me. This is a shower, I realize, and start stripping off my clothes and tossing them to the side of the stall. They're all caked with mud, and the curtain that separates the stall from whatever else is out there gets wet as I wash the mud and sweat off of me.

I do this quickly, in case there is a time limit as to how long I'm allowed to be in here. There's one, drying soap bar to use, and I clean myself quickly. The water is freezing cold, but I don't care; it wakes me up from my terrible reality, which seems as much like a dream as my black ink dreams that plague me every night.

The freezing water eventually shuts off, luckily after I've washed myself the best I can. I'm disappointed, though, because it felt much better than the rainwater that pours into my pit every day. The curtain opens seconds after, a towel thrust at me forcefully by a guard, who awkwardly averts his eyes. I grab the towel as it punches into my chest, and quickly dry off, tie it around my chest, and then follow the guard as he points with his gun out of the bathroom.

Another convoy of guards orders me down a labyrinth of hallways in Spanish. I obey silently, hoping that I'm doing what they tell me. The whole time, I feel awkwardly exposed, considering the fact that I'm shirtless. Down another dark hallway, the soldiers push me into a pitch black room, and shut the door violently.

The lights suddenly blare on, to reveal a desk in the center of the room with a single man sitting at it. The lights are on the ceiling, but a lamp is also on the desk, casting rays of light on a single book that rests on the wooden desk. There are two hands clasped together on the desk, and a dark face that watches me intently.

"There are some clothes on the floor next to you," Rorke says, his biting southern accent making me grit my teeth. He makes no effort to control me, but I can see that he has a gun on the desk as well. He just sits, watching and waiting for me to make a move.

Rorke wants to play games. He wants me to succumb to him and do what he wants; to join up with him to take out the rest of the Ghosts. He can't break me, though, no matter how hard he tries. But there's a difference between standing up to your enemies and being stupid. Being stupid would get me killed. I would have to play along with Rorke and the Federation for a good amount of time in order to make it out of here alive.

I untie the towel around my waste and quickly slip on the clothes. While I'm exposed, Rorke looks away, but keeps a hand on his gun just in case I try anything. Like I said, I'm not stupid. I know how to handle this kind of situation, even if I'm not speaking. The clothes are a fresh pair of the ones that I had before, a grey shirt with long black pants. After I dress myself, I sit down in the seat opposite Rorke.

The lack of things on the table discomforts me; a book and a gun are the only things of interest, and I silently watch Rorke as his fingers envelop around the latter. I also don't like that I'm unarmed; if this goes badly, I'm clearly at the disadvantage.

"Let's begin things very simply, son. What is your name?" Rorke asks me slowly, staring me down. I stay silent, and that doesn't sit well with him. The corners of his mouth twitch as he realizes that I'm not quite broken yet. He leans forward, frustrated. "I hope that you won't disobey me, son. Things might get ugly, and we're all friends here, right?"

He sits back in his chair, his hand leaving the gun and clasping together with his other hand. "What's your name?" he asks politely again. My eyes dart to the gun, obviously, I assume, and then back to my captor.

"Sergeant Logan Walker," I answer, my voice dry and humble. I haven't spoken since I got here, and I'm naturally quiet anyways. I hate the sound of my voice now; its scratchy and broken, and it makes me sound like I'm intimidated when I'm really not.

Rorke shakes his head, though, even though I did what he asked. "Logan, you aren't a Sergeant anymore. You have no title at the moment. What, do you think you can just walk in here and call yourself a sergeant? You'll have to earn our trust, our trust, before you can take that rank," he scolds me.

What? I stare at him blankly. Obviously this is a mind game. I'm a sergeant in the USSF, not whatever he's saying. I think that he thinks I'm saying I'm a sergeant in the Federation, because I've supposedly joined them. I think that's it. So, I suppose, I have to play that card.

I swallow hard, trying to soften my voice, and stare at my interrogator. "Sir, I think that you're a bit mistaken. I'm still a sergeant for the United States. And I'm certainly not, and will not ever be, part of you Southern American bastards, like you turned to them," I snarl, feeling more confident in myself now that my voice sends better.

The man scratches at his stubble, thinking and closing his eyes. Now would be a good opportunity to grab the gun and end this, I think, but I know Rorke has good reflexes. He won't be caught off guard like that so easily.

"Well, I suppose you're a little too early in the process to have recognized the truth, especially since you haven't been taught anything by being thrown in a pit and fed poison," he answers, opening his eyes and grabbing the book. "Do you know what this is?"

"An extremely exciting piece of literature," I respond sarcastically, but I recognize it. It's the Federation Codes, a book about why the organization does what it does, and what its motives are. We haven't been able to get our hands on it; it's like the Federation's personal Magna Carta. But here it is, sitting in front of me, easily distinguishable by the surprisingly public image of the Federation's flag design on a backdrop of the South American continent.

"This is the Federation Codes," Rorke explains, holding it up for me. "It explains the intentions of Almagro, how they were adapted to be practical after his assassination," he continues, sneering at the part that he had obvious implications in, "and all of the military and political procedures and plans for the state's future."

I nod, trying to come off as bored. My intention right now is to make him uncomfortable, since the opposite seems to be so important to him. Actually, this is really interesting, that the Codes are sitting right in front of me, open for the taking. I have to play mind games, though, if that's what Rorke will try to do to me. "And how does this affect me?" I ask snidely.

"It will teach you why the world is seen the correct way through the Federation's eyes, and will eventually show you the way in the same fashion that it showed me," he explains further, his eyes suddenly filled with the wonder of a small child, rather than the cold blooded killer that he actually is.

"So, this book will teach me how to be a traitor? Splendid," I say, which ticks off Rorke.

He stands up quickly, grabbing the pistol and pressing it against my forehead. The cold barrel feels like ice, and for the first time of this meeting I'm actually a little nervous. I don't show it, though, as I stare right back into Rorke's menacing eyes.

"Logan, I like you. A lot more than your annoying-ass brother, and a hell of a lot more than your prissy father," he barks, the veins on his hand bulging and his knuckles turning white on the grip of the gun. "There's a reason I want you on my side, and it's because you are the best soldier I've seen in a long time. Not only that, but your personality is good; you're quiet for the most part, but there's the resilience in there that makes a strong ally." He pauses for a moment, pulling the gun away and placing it back on the table. "So don't make me kill you."

Rorke sits back down, and opens the book to a page about a quarter through. "The origin of the Federation was a strategic one, formed on the basis of rejuvenating the economies of a number of great nations in South America that had struggled into the dawn of the 21st century. Due to the number of natural resources above ground, such as a large, constant wood supply, as well as underground in the oil and minerals. It was a brilliant plan, but what did they have to prove?

"Well, as the Middle East slowly ran out of resources, many countries began turning to the Federation for resources. As the economy grew for the country, other South American countries began joining the Federation for the military and political support. And with more land came more resources, which became more appealing to European nations, as well as the land that you and I fought for once.

"The United States, unknowingly, were aiding their own downfall by losing interest in the Middle East and instead turning to the Federation like all of their NATO allies. As they probed the Federation government, because of their overly self-conscious sense of security, they learned of the Federation's ultimate plan, however vaguely. What the US got was that the Federation would continue to expand to any nation willing to join for the support, as being united under one flag seemed to work for the Americans. What they didn't understand, however, was that the Federation wouldn't be afraid to expand by force if the resources involved were necessary to the state's survival.

"And so, the infamous plan was devised, and it all centered around the American satellite ODIN, and its ultimate destructive power. As the United States and its allies grew more dependent on our resources, we became a resource to them that they could not lose. So, if we turned against the United States, how would the rest of NATO react? Would they help to save the crippled country that had literally no use to them anymore without being a superpower? Or would they stand aside to make sure that they wouldn't lose their resource in the Federation?

"Politicians are crooked, and you know the turnout of the situation if you're still standing here, ten years later. They abandoned the former superpower as it fell apart, and was invaded by their new 'ally'. Now, an explanation of that term. The members of NATO are not supporting the Federation in a military effort, but they stay out of our way in exchange for the support that they need. Which, in the end, is a good tradeoff for both sides.

"And so, after the United States provided a significant amount of resistance, the Federation began a new plan. The plan of hijacking the ODIN satellite had worked so well, they could reverse-engineer it to make their own satellite, and use that to their advantage. So then came Loki, and the hijinks that you and your Ghost friends created. The plan was to use Loki to take out the remains of the United States military, to finish the job. And that didn't end the way we planned, obviously."

Rorke stops talking, putting the book down. I guess he was reading and adding his own commentary, more likely skimming over what the book had covered and helping me understand it. I understood it, but I still thought that they were pretty twisted to try to do the same damage again. "So, where does that bring us now?" he asks me.

I shrug, not knowing where he's going with all this. Obviously there's a point, but I'm not picking up on it. He explained what he did, and I get the information. But what picture does this paint, what does that imply?

"The Federation's next course of action will be similar to our old one, familiar because of the style of warfare involved. Guerilla warfare, to be specific, and we're forming it now. Chapter Seven, it will be called, our version of the Ghosts. You and I, we're gonna lead it. And we're going to take out the Ghosts, and then make sure that we can either attempt to reverse engineer the space station once more from Loki's wreckage, which we're sending men to retrieve from its crash site in Canada, as well as taking out every single person who will dramatically aid the United States in rebounding again," he explains to me, nodding to assure himself. "You'll make a hell of a leader, Logan."

I sit there and stew this over for a moment, while Rorke looks on, watching me in my trance. He is going to build me in his own image, much like the Federation built him in their own image to hunt down the Ghosts. And now they're going to use me to finish the job, and do so much more.

"I'm not gonna turn against my own country," I tell Rorke firmly, staring back at him in seething anger as my realization continues to dawn on me. "I'm a patriot, and I always will be. I'm a quiet patriot, though, and you won't break me. Ever." And right there, I close my mouth and watch him, waiting for his reaction. I'm silent, I remember, and I will stay silent if their only intention is to make me a monster.

"You'll break, Logan," Rorke says, biting his lip. "It will take a week, or two, or a month or two, but you will break. And you will help me." He stops, biting his lip. "If there's one thing you're right about, Logan, it is that I'm a monster. Nothing will stop me, unless I see a better option. And that makes me relentless, like you see me here now."

This seems like the closing point of the conversation, and indeed, Rorke picks up a phone that was on his belt and says something in Spanish into it. I assume it's him ordering for me to taken away to wherever I'm going; either back to the pit, or some even more brutal torture.

"Rorke, what made you so efficient?" I question, glaring at him. He puts the phone down and watches me, biting his lip again. It is chewed raw, I realize, which means it must be his bad habit. When his lips move, though, that gnarly, nasty voice snakes back out.

"I work out of anger, and anger is the greatest fuel for someone whose job is to orchestrate killing. It's anger at your father, at Merrick and Keegan, at the whole of the Ghost system for leaving me behind to die, when I could have been saved. It showed that you and your United States friends didn't care for a soldier, even the man that led them," he spits, his eyes cold and hard, his tone threatening. "You can't break away an anger as deep as mine."

"Why not?"

"Because, Logan, when a spark is lit, it runs a fuel. Until that fuel runs out, the fire will keep burning," he says, stopping to think for a moment. "And the fuel for me is the memory of what happened that day, and all the reasons on why it shouldn't have happened that I've learned over my years here. That, and the knowledge of the truth about the Federation and the Ghosts."

"What truth?" I ask back, angry that he's implying there's something wrong with the Ghosts. "What do I not know?"

Rorke's anger, though, seems to fade away, and he folds the book closed and taps his finger against the desk absent-mindedly. "The truth about war, Logan. I'll teach you it. And you'll begin to hate the Ghosts too," he mutters begrudgingly.

Suddenly, the door opens, and two men in Federation uniforms enter the room. One of them elbows the back of my head, and I fly into the desk and bounce back up into the arms of the two men. They pull me away, dragging me on my back, as I slowly lose consciousness. As I pass through the door frame, the pain in my head and my injured arm numbing, I see Rorke looking on, almost displeased that I am being tortured, but then draws a blank stare and looks away. His dark, hard, and pained face is the last thing I see before my world goes black.

July 12th, 12:09:24

I don't remember much from the other day after my early confrontation with Rorke. I remember pain. Lots of pain, in many different forms. Beating, and drowning, and burning. I remember fear, as well. Fear of the men who dragged me around their chambers, torturing me in one room, bringing my injured and frail body helplessly to the next room and doing something different there. I was hopelessly afraid, and the black ink dreams continued to paint themselves in my head whenever I fell asleep, which usually came because of either being knocked out or just passing out myself.

Most of all, though, I remember a pain in my stomach. That's what I feel now; a constant, throbbing pain from the poison in my food. They give me the same food for every meal: a canvas of water and a baloney sandwich, lower down into my pit through a short rope that weaves its way around the bamboo cage top and then down. They untie it and bring it away after I've taken my food, so I can't use it to either escape or hang myself. Not that I would do either. I can't let them break me, and I have to make it through this so that I can survive.

All of the food, however, is laced with the poisons of the fruits of the Amazon. I don't know how they're implanted in my sandwich or mixed so perfectly into my water, but it's impossible to tell they are there except for the aftereffects. The poisons don't taste like anything either, so I don't feel anything until those effects. But the pain makes up for lost time.

Once the food works its way into my stomach, it seems to explode with poison, making my throat taste like fire and my stomach throb. It's the most intense pain that I've ever felt, worse than being shot because it is constantly awful. When you're shot, there's a split second of extreme pain and then a slow, coursing, stinging pain from the wound. This, though, it burns and throbs like hell, nothing like I've ever dealt with before.

I can see why this broke Rorke, who is strong, but I will myself not to break. If he was manipulated, it wasn't from the pain, he insists. It was from the knowledge of the truth that he speaks of, the truth that he'll teach me. I haven't seen him since our encounter three days before, so I don't know anything else about what he has in store for me.

This morning, early, they brought me out of my pit, and did the same routine as always. They wash me off from the mud that gets on me from my 'bed', give me new clothes, and then torture me. Today, though, the soldiers stopped early, and have brought me to this empty room, with a projector hanging from the ceiling, pointed at a wall. There's a single, black metal chair in the center of the room, where I now sit, as well as a locked door behind me. And, if I forgot to mention, cameras on every corner of the room to observe me.

On the projector is a purely white screen, which I watch attentively to see if I notice any differences. All of a sudden, it changes to the Federation flag, and then to a full color image of a middle-aged man, staring at the camera while wearing a nervous look. He looks Hispanic, so I assume that he's some sort of Federation leader.

"Hello, family, friends, and soldiers of the South American Federation," he says, an obvious Brazilian accent drifting through the projector. "I am Chancellor Suarez, as you know, and I'm here to address an unfortunate issue for a great nation. That issue, of course, is the mass flooding of Cacarus."

He pauses, his eyes moving quickly, and it is suddenly obvious that he is reading off a script. Typical politician. "As you have probably heard by now, the city of Cacarus was attacked by United States forces in an effort to assassinate General Almagro, to which they succeeded. This was done because they believe his military actions come across as hostile to our neighbors to the north, and they were threatened by his presence.

"The government of our Federation has addressed this issue, and has gone over detailed refinement of his plans for expansion economically and militaristically for our nation. In light of the attack, we will also focus on rebuilding a ruined and decimated city, which sits under thirty feet of water thanks to the collapse of the dam in the mountains near Cacarus.

"Strictly to the leaders of the United States, we have no issue with you finding a problem with General Almagro's policies," Chancellor Suarez says to the camera, his tone suddenly becoming darker and colder than before. "We could have discussed this formally should you have seen the need for a change in his procedures. However, you decided to take him out with violence and the devastation of our great city. This will not go unpunished. For now, we will continue treaty talks so your government can supply us with the means necessary to rebuild after your damage. Should you fail to do this, however, and this could turn into a bloody and even more devastating war."

Chancellor Suarez stops, lets this sink in, and then continues. "All survivors that are still stranded in Cacarus, please make it to the rooftops and use any means necessary to make yourself known to evacuation teams. Please use caution, however, as American ground forces may remain in the city. Any air and armored presence has been dismissed, but stay away from anything suspicious which may lead to an American foot soldier. If you are brought to safety, please notify officials of anything that concerned you. Thank you, and peace be with you all."

The video ends abruptly, cutting back to the white screen. I understand what I just watched, but I don't understand why. This must be the beginning of Rorke's 'lessons'. My theory is confirmed, then when Rorke's face appears on the projector, staring at me. I stare back, lifting my chin up to assert myself.

"I hope you enjoyed the presentation," he says, watching me with interest. "That was broadcast publicly four hours after the dam broke outside of Cacarus, which flooded the city."

"Do you believe him?" I say, in disbelief. "You were there, weren't you? In the video, Suarez blamed the US for blowing up the dam when it was Almagro's decision!"

Rorke, instead of telling me to shut up or being angry at my deliberate response, begins to laugh. He laughs for a little bit before stopping, and between breaths, answers me. "Of course I know that it was his order! It was simply a mistake, by their intelligence, unless, which is the more likely theory, there were some favorites being played. Blame the other guys, right?"

That makes sense, I figure, but then what is the point of showing me that video? Rorke, of course, seems to read my mind to figure out my question. "This is an important clip because it shows the Federation public's side to the aftermath of the devastation in Cacarus, as well as my closing hours as a Ghost. That last part was merely added in so that they could, hopefully, find me if I remained in the city. Not many Americans got out that day, you see, and your father was one of the lucky few," he explains.

"If you'll follow that guard upstairs, I'll tell you something in person," he continues, and then the projector turns off as the door behind me opens. A Federation soldier stands, gun in hand, and waves me out of the room. I follow him, his gun trained on me from behind his shoulder, and eventually he leads me up a long flight of stairs.

Once we reach the top, he lets me walk in front of him just so he can push me out the door that exits the stairwell. The impact hurts, especially since it was my injured, casted arm that hit the metal door. He doesn't care for obvious reasons, but I open the door and find myself in sunlight for the first time in what seems like forever. I get to torture building tired and early in the morning, before the sun comes up, and go back once the sun has set and I'm too beaten up to actually notice anything.

Rorke stands about ten yards away, flanked by two guards on either side. He holds the same phone he had the other day, and watches the trees around the complex that we're on the roof of with interest. There are rainforest birds cawing and chirping, flying around in magnificent arrays of color. "The day that the dam broke through in Cacarus was the dawn of a new era for the Federation," he says, turning to face me as I walk towards him, the guard behind me keeping the barrel of his gun prodded against my back.

"It began the two-year long buildup to the hijacking of the ODIN satellite," he explains with charm, watching me as I stop in front of him, surrounded by Federation cronies. "Today begins a new era, an era of the Federation working towards another satellite to end everything. And I wanted you to see, at least as well as you could, the beginning of it."

He stops and presses a few buttons on his phone, and then waits. He then puts it to his ear. "Mahogany 9-1, do you read? This is Fortress, do you copy? Yes, Mahogany, orders are confirmed. Orders are as follows, Juliet Omega 6-79-01. Proceed with mission. Fortress out."

He puts the phone away and stands for a moment, thinking. "When all is said and done, Logan, I don't think I'll be remembered as the man who killed Ghosts, or even made them the force that they are. I'll be remembered as the man who captured you and made you the greatest soldier this world has ever come to know," he thinks, smiling crudely. "They call me the Ghost Killer. More like the Ghost Captor, wouldn't you say?"

I stand silently, wondering what he just ordered. An attack on an American base, or worse? Whatever it is, I pray that it doesn't affect Hesh or Merrick or Keegan. Please, don't kill my friends, Rorke. I'll do what you want, but don't kill them.

"I think our friend Logan has had a rough enough day," Rorke comments, whistling in agreement with himself. "Why don't you boys give him his lunch and then leave him alone in his pit for the rest of the day, don't you think?"

One of the soldiers pushes me towards the stairwell door, and I take one last look at the sun before I reenter the building. I know that food means poison, and poison means pain, so he has just ordered me to be escorted to hell. Rorke doesn't seem to care, though, his hands in his pockets, watching the birds of the Amazon fly around. I glare at him as I pass through the doorway, and then venture towards another hell that awaits me.

Why how suspenseful. There's our little taste of Logan for now, I suppose; he's going to enter a kind of cycle at this facility, so we won't visit him until it's almost complete. But there's his stance, and Rorke's attitude about the whole situation, which I figured was important for you guys to see. In the end, it's just more talking, but at least it is slightly more interesting. Don't worry, next chapter we'll begin to get the good stuff! :D

Now that you've read that, I assume that you understand that both Logan and Hesh will be leading all-star squads of characters from their respective armies in the Ghosts and Chapter Seven. Well, here's your chance to really aid the story! That's right an OC contest!

Think of all the mayhem that I've just sparked. XD Just some general rules before you submit: your odds will probably be better if you're as descriptive as possible. A name and body aren't going to cut it. Try to include emotional scars, histories, personalities, and tendencies for a better chance. Also, please don't write a review that's just an entry. Please offer something else helpful, such as constructive criticism, before your entry to the contest. I appreciate it, but please keep it to thoughtful reviews and PMs please. Finally, please don't ask for the character to be used in this way or be in that faction. I'll decide where the winning characters will go that will best aid the flow of the story.

The contest will be open for a short while, maybe like three to five chapters, so make sure that you get them in quick! There will be four total winners; two that are in Hesh's squad, two in Logan's. And, just an FYI, just because Logan's characters are Federation doesn't mean that they have to be Brazilian or Venezuelan names. There's always a background to a character, which I have for the two Federation winners, so don't hassle yourself with looking up similar names to Vinicus and Liuz. XD

I hope to see the continued support and entries, but for now, I think I'm done. Thanks guys, and I'll see you next time!