~

Commander Jasen Krayle stared out the glass wall of his office, his eyes fixed on the dark angular skyscrapers before him. He watched the bright yellow consruction craft float alongside Gregon Center bridge, repairing damage dealt nearly a week ago. It could have been so much worse, he thought. Aren saved a thousand lives, maybe more.

Krayle's eyes focused on the windowpane itself. He stared at the image reflected in the glass: A tall, wide-shouldered man with a pale visage and dark eyes. His angled face and short-buzzed black hair were slightly warped in the window's representation.

What could have brought him through? he wondered. What drives this young man so hard to survive? He's like nothing I've ever seen. The torture he endured is enough for any man to hand over his life. To say, "that's enough," and be at peace. But this man...

This man refuses peace.

He gave his attention once again to the Nebrian skyline. A small, armored hoverjet was approaching his highrise office window. It came within several yards of the glass, but then began to rise, and was soon out of his sight.

Pain...he acts as though immune to it. This man has lived his entire life with great measures of pain. It seems he has accepted the pain; learned to live in spite of it...or perhaps, because of it.

One day, I shall have to ask him how he does it. Were I, or anyone else, in his shoes, we'd have given in long ago.

Krayle picked up his overcoat from atop his office desk, and left the office.

~

The cavernous Landing Bay 003 was alive with activity. Mechanical officers ran from place to place, gathering equipment and running to the center of the steel-walled bay. Massive side-sliding doors, leading out to the Nebrian sky, were tightly shut. Cables and hoses, attached to various places in the walls and controlled by robotic arms, swung their way toward the center of the landing bay. A heavily armored transport hoverjet had just landed, and it lay waiting to disembark its crew.

A duo of black-suited pilots stepped down from a lowering platform. A third figure stood behind them, the brave soldier who saved Gregon Bridge a few days before. The man was a bit taller than the pilots, and much wider at the shoulders. He wore his bulky grey Terran armor, in perfect condition except for a slash across the chest. His flat-fronted helmet was cradled in one arm.

The soldier's face was sharp and pale. His cheeks were angular; his nose and mouth thin and defined. His wide eyes held a touch of distant blue, and dark lines under his eyelids gave him a tired appearance at first glance. He peered out from behind locks of wavy black hair. Beginning at his forehead and stretching between his eyes, a thin X was tattooed across his upper face.The young man appeared young, perhaps a little over twenty.

The pilots nodded to him and went their ways, as Commander Krayle approached. "Welcome back, Lieutenant Ghost!" he shouted with an informal salute.

The soldier saluted in the same fashion. "Thank you, sir. The restoration crews wish to inform you that Gregon Center will be open within the hour."

"Very good," he said, and shook hands with the young man as they met. "You're doing a hell of a job out there. And I don't just mean the bridge incident. We've never seen the kind of performance you've been generating on the streets."

"I'd better be showing results," Ghost said coldly, "considering all the cash you guys put into me."

"That's the spirit!" chuckled Krayle.

They stepped into a narrow, floodlit hallway, and a sliding door hissed shut behind them. Lower-ranking officers immediately stepped aside as the two passed.

"So they're still watching me, are they?" noted Ghost. "Still waiting for something to go horribly wrong."

"Not quite," said Krayle. "They're mostly concerned with the strain you've been putting on yourself. The Plexus wants to make sure you're healthy, physically and otherwise."

"Never felt better," Ghost replied. "But I really wish they'd quit their spying, it's creeping me out."

"I'd say it's a small price to pay for what they've given you."

"True."

They slid open a doorway, and entered Krayle's office. The commander motioned for Ghost to take a seat before the desk. "Good news, I've got another assignment for you. An international one. It might be a little tough, however. We need you to hunt somebody down for us."

"Who's the target?"asked Ghost, sitting down.

Krayle leaned against the desktop. "A munitions thief, a Wastelander. He ambushed a supply truck carrying some heavy weapons. Managed to snipe off the whole crew from a distance. The Plexus is not happy about this."

Ghost blinked his wide blue eyes. "Sir...did you say a Wastelander?"

The commander peered at the young soldier. "Yes, I did. He smuggles arms through the Wasteland, and lives there most of the year." Krayle raised an eyebrow. "Is this a problem, Lieutenant?"

"No..." trailed Gost, but he quickly regained himself. "Sir, no sir. As you know, I have much experience working in the Wasteland area. I'll find him."

"Good. You'll be briefed in detail prior to dustoff. You'e got three days to prepare yourself. Sorry we've got to put you back in the field so soon."

"I was growing anxious anyhow," said Ghost. He locked the black helmet over his face, and looked at Krayle through a faceless mask with slitted eyes. "Too much time out of this thing makes me uncomfortable."

~