"Flint, this is Wild Bill. We're approaching drop point. Copy?"

The helicopter pilot heard Flint's scratchy reply through his headset. "Affirmative, Wild Bill. Baggage is packed and ready to drop." Bill nodded to himself. All he had to do was get his team close enough to 'chute in. They were going to be doing the hard work today.

He checked his monitors. He knew a Skystriker team was close behind, but they were hoping the lone 'copter could sneak in under radar before the alarm was sounded. The planes were mostly for show in the beginning, anyway; they couldn't drop any bombs on Cobra until Flint's extraction team came back out.

Wild Bill would have sworn there wasn't anything out here. When Breaker had shown them the map, he insisted he and Mainframe had correctly pinpointed the location of Lady Jaye's transmission. But all he could see was sand. Trusting that they had it right, he brought the Tomahawk lower.

He heard the bay doors opening. Easy does it… Steady…

He swore as a gust of wind forced the copter almost a hundred feet higher in the air. It buffeted the body and rotors, causing them to thrum and whine.

"What's going on, Wild Bill?" Flint's concerned voice sounded tinny in his ear.

"Hell if I know… Shit. Look at that!" An enormous cloud of sand blocked his view. It shifted strangely, almost… alive. Bill shook his head. Impossible.

"It's a no-go, Flint! You can't drop in this!" he shouted.

"I don't think we have a choice," Flint replied. "Lifeline fell out the door when the wind hit. Give us two minutes, then get above this storm. Flint out."

Wild Bill crossed his fingers and began to count.

The wind was incredible. He'd never felt anything like it. Skydiving wasn't his favorite past-time as it was, and this…this was a nightmare.

He had no idea how long he had been falling, or how high they had been when he fell. He was torn between the desperate urge to pull his 'chute NOW and the knowledge of what the wind would do if he did.

Lifeline closed his eyes and prayed. Then he carefully pulled his ripcord.

The result was chaotic. He was pulled in every direction at once. The wind was singing through the ropes, and the delicate fabric was already starting to tear.

He didn't even see the ground until after he hit. His legs buckled, and he tried to roll.

His 'chute had other ideas. The wind tugged at it, pulling him along the coarse sand. He clawed at the straps, sliding the first clasp loose. He gasped in pain as the pressure increased on the remaining shoulder. Then he was free, watching in relief as his parachute sailed away.

He tucked into a fetal position and waited for the storm to stop.

Some time later, he opened his eyes. He was nearly buried in sand. He didn't mind; it had likely saved him from being scoured.

He stood.

There was no sign of his teammates.

He chose a direction and started to walk.

There were no landmarks to choose from. Something in the distance looked different, though. He headed toward the anomaly, increasing his pace as he neared it.

It appeared to be a shallow pit in the sand. He jumped to the bottom and kneeled to inspect it. Not just a pit. A grate. He lifted it and looked inside.

The medic uncoiled the rope from his pack, securing it to the bars of the grate. But there was nothing to anchor it to. Working quickly, he lowered himself into the hole. As he had hoped, the walls were narrow enough for him to brace himself with his back and feet on opposite sides of the shaft.

The stones felt cold against his back. He had left his jacket at the rim of the hole, knowing that the red fabric could be seen for quite a distance.

He held himself immobile for a minute as he pulled the grate back over the opening. Tugging on the rope, he made sure the bars locked back into place. Easing his legs from the wall, he let the rope take his entire weight. It held; he descended into the gloom.

He emerged, he estimated, about two hundred feet down, into a stone tunnel. He dangled for a moment, scanning the hallways for a sign of Cobra activity. Nothing.

Coiling the end of the rope, he tossed it back into the air shaft. He hoped no one would notice that the lower grate was missing; there was no way for him to reach it now that he was on the floor. The area was directly between two distant lights; barely visible even if you were looking for it. Perfect.

He wanted to be able to find it again, though. Very carefully he scraped a line in the stone closest to the floor with his knife. He knew the escape route was there if he needed it. I hope my teammates get here and we go out the front door, he thought. Much preferable to trying to drag two potentially wounded Joes up through that.

He started jogging down the hallway.

Where are all the Cobra soldiers? he wondered some time later. He hadn't so much as glimpsed a blue uniform. He stopped to listen, and immediately chose a hallway to the right. He could swear he heard screams coming from that direction. He made it to the next juncture just as an alarm sounded.

Major Bludd cursed and brought his fist down on the table. "The Joes are here! Well," he said turning to the door, "I suppose I had best stop playing with Mindbender's toy and ready some of Destro's. Are you coming?" he directed at Zartan.

The mercenary shrugged. "I will if the Commander calls me. I'm sure it's nothing you can't handle." Zartan smiled at the look Budd gave him. God he loved getting a rise out of the man.

Bludd stormed from the room, taking the two guards with him.

Zartan waited to a count of thirty, then began unstrapping the enemy soldier from the table. When he was finished, he secured the extra set of cage keys from their 'secret' hiding place and put them in the lock. He left them dangling there and walked out of the room, looking for the Joes.

He searched the nearby hallways for about fifteen minutes before he glimpsed a flash of furtive movement in a doorway. Zartan turned down the hall and walked slowly toward the door. He paused just even with the opening, and pretended to examine a stone in the wall opposite. He braced against an impact or the feel of a gun, but it never came.

Come on, Joe, he silently commanded. Jump me already! He waited. Nothing happened. Somewhat nonplussed, he finally turned toward the door. Pressed as far back into the shadows as the shallow recess would allow stood the Joe medic. Oh, not HIM, Zartan cursed.

He sighed, and put his hands in the air. In his best dramatic voice, Zartan cried, "I surrender! I'll show you where the Joe prisoners are! Just don't shoot me!"

The medic they called Lifeline just looked confused. Zartan repeated his entreaty a little louder.

"I am a pacifist," the Joe responded. "I wouldn't shoot you."

Zartan rolled his eyes. He grabbed the medic's wrist and dragged him back down the hallway toward the lab.

Dusty awoke to darkness and silence. He could barely feel his hands and feet; his head felt light. So this is it…No angels, no demons, just…silence. He wondered what would happen next. He wasn't very religious, but was certain that something must happen when you died. All in all, though, he thought that this wasn't too bad. He could finally rest. He didn't have to fight anymore. He didn't have to worry about his mother, or his teammates, or…

He felt a pang of regret when he thought about the people he'd left behind. He pictured his mother's face, worn with worry and pain from her battle with illness. The image wavered and was replaced by another, this one younger, prettier, full of energy.

A small sigh escaped through his lips. She was such a good friend. They'd been through so much together. He had hoped in the future their friendship might become something more…But not now.

Remember me, and move on, Courtney…he wished her silently.

He closed his eyes again and stopped thinking of anything.

"How long has he been like this?"

Were those voices? They didn't sound very angelic. Dusty's brain tried to make sense of what it was hearing.

"He was hooked up to the machine for about an hour. The other one… I think it was closer to seven hours."

Ah. That voice, at least, sounded distinctly demonic.

"The other…Oh, my God! Where are the keys?"

"In the lock."

There was a high-pitched screech of metal scraping on stone. Hell, then. He supposed he deserved it.

"Her pulse seems steady. No obvious injuries… What does this machine do?"

Machine? Something about a machine…He struggled to remember.

The demon-voice spoke. "Convinces the brain it's dying. The body experiences the imagery and pain associated with whatever…scenario…the brain digs up from the subconscious."

"Scenario?"

"You know: drowning, fire, bullet wound. Whatever the brain fears."

Heat exhaustion. Snake bite. His mind added.

"And this lasts for seven hours?"

"Well…no. Generally about a half hour."

"Then how-?"

"How many different horrific deaths can your brain conjure, medic?"

"…I see. Why are you helping me?"

"Helping you? I thought I was your hostage."

"Fine. I didn't really expect an answer anyway."

Did demons argue? Maybe the other one was an angel and they were deciding his fate. The voices continued bickering in the background. He tuned them out until a gentle hand touched his forhead.

"Dusty?" a voice whispered.

It was the 'angel.' That was good. Then why was he afraid?

"Dusty!" Louder.

What did it want?

"He's awake, but non-responsive. My team—I hope my team will get here in the next few minutes. Maybe you should…make yourself scarce?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm very good going unnoticed."

The angel and demon stopped speaking.