'Fog dissolves, but it is still hard to see through it.'


Emotions are like a deadman's switch. They react to motionlessness and sleep, sounding an alarm and an explosion.

It has been this way since forever.

It doesn't change in the weeks recovering on Tuck. If all, it only gets worse. As dangerous as living under the nose of silver military and eyes that want to chase you is. You have room to run.

He could simply abandon men to let their hope wither and brutally die. Run from a jet and a girl with block letters. The Pulls come and they hold tight, but he could dodge and counterfeit.

Now he is trapped on an island with his own thoughts and the questions.

Colonel Farley and the Ghost have some begrudging agreements after the first interrogation in the bright room. There is no way to cover up the scars on his face. Or the past months hunting and killing silver. He holds his deadman's switch very tightly in his hands as soon as they start to reach the past.

"Just Thomas," the man repeats.

"Yes, Sir," The Ghost whispers low.

"A soldier."

"Yes, Sir," His voice is hoarse and dusty, and it's strange to realize that it sounds older and more bend than Colonel Farley's.

"A fire made that face," the older man says, and arms crossed tightly in the space between them while the Ghost just sits very silently, breath rattling in his chest.

"The flames happened before." For the first time in a long while, the Ghost's voice does not stutter because he barely uses it and it is hoarse, but because the words get stuck in the back of his throat like a hot iron someone has shoved down there. It makes him uncomfortable to hold this long discussion. "I was in the war. And the woods. Then I made my way to Archeon and tried to shoot Elara Merandus. That is all there is to know."

"And how did you decide to march into the capital and try to shoot her?" He asks, looking at him with one suspicious good eye, and one ill colored. It is locked onto him with some aquiline cautiousness.

The Ghost has told everyone his value is almost only depicted by his hand on his weapons and not by the things he used to be.

Dead. Reborn.

I was a son. I was a servant. I was a lover. A friend. A soldier.

I am a Ghost.

"I am red, Sir," he answers and sits still, holding his breath a moment. Like he does before he aims like he does when he wakes up from the Pulls. His ribs ripple harshly against it, protesting, reminding him of falling, drowning. "Isn't that the only answer that counts for the purpose of our deal?"

And that is where they agree, and he gets off the hook for now. The Ghost is very aware it won't stay that way. But he takes what he can get. He doesn't lie to Colonel Farley or any of the others.

If they ask the right question, he will answer them.

He faintly remembers another blurry face from that first day. Female, with hands working over his injuries after the first interrogation. She stares at his face with her eyebrows drawn together. He sees right through her, down the sterile clean clothes.

His mind drifts and tumbles. It wallows and echoes.

It takes two weeks and she still reminds him every time that her name is Lena when his eyes don't even see her face. And he still forgets.

I'm not one of you- I'm not one of them- No one, just a scattered reminder, ash smeared and bloody and lumping broken bones-

And it's true. He isn't one of them. He doesn't tell Lena or anyone else that takes their demeaning time to waste breath and try to pull him into a talk. The Ghost tries to dispel anything that could mean respect, but the Lakelander has done a good enough job to spread words of the Fogland Soldier.

"Give me a task, Sir," the Ghost asks, dragging himself over the base. He follows the colonel like a slug. Maybe just because it keeps people from trying to talk to him. "Anything. I am almost completely healed and need to prove myself."

A weapon needs to be cleaned and maintained, but it also needs to be fired with clarity and aim. What else is an intrument of death good for?

The sweat on his brow and the limp proves him a liar. And Colonel Farley doesn't fall for it. Even with that begrudging agreement. He dismisses the Ghost. He is almost out of patience for his vexing attempts.

When you sleep in a barrack, in a bunk, on an island, you can never be alone. Not for long. As the Pulls drag him underwater, snickering animals finding him, eating his toes in a tickling sensation and slinging their tendrils unto him, he forces himself not to make any kind of sound. A tongue pressed against the back of teeth, nostrils vibrating heavy.

Strange how blood tastes. It filters through his teeth and floods his tongue, an iron, heavy taste. It fills his nostrils, snorting, panting, struggling-

When the Pulls find him in the bunk, the ghost forces his body up as silently as he can. No chains, no cell. But also no clearance. And no weapons.

He understands the sentiment. Colonel Farley and whoever else is in charge wouldn't take the risk. And why would an injured man need a knife and a gun anyway?

Still. Something in the ghost wants to lash out and screech when his hand folds under the empty space on his body, then back under his blanket. Because the knife is not there. No trustful elongation of his fingers lingering and longing to be used.

He can only flee between empty barracks and hills in silent moments like this, feet digging into the sandy shore. The last traveling times, the Lakelander has found him. Now, people are more manifold in their duty to keep an eye on him. There are at least one or two soldiers around. They know him by now, lurking around in the early moments of the grey dawn, staring at the water.

The sea is filled with pinches of green and black in thunderous waves or soft splashes. One time, parts are polluted by the grimy dark sleaze that leaks out of an engine. Sometimes you can watch fish, swift little black shadows. They chase and flee, stirred into action by the moving waves, darting between the ships. The fish, at least have room to escape if they ever feel trapped. A headstart for the ghost.

Seagulls are often visitors, circling along and screeching in their greedy search for spoils. The seagulls too can leave wherever they want to go.

The wind cracks his body like kicks. The ribs hurt and burn.

He simply stands between a few swaying blades of plants overgrowing the terrain. Behind him, something rumbles in the belly of the hangar, intestines of engines swirling with power.

He keeps his place. The wind pushes so heavy now it makes breathing hard. It overlaps any early sound of voices yelling commands.

At first, his fingers go numb, his ears tingle.

With one scarred hand he pushes the grey jacket tightly around his shoulders. The sky is as milky slick as dead eyes.

Dead eyes eaten by the birds, beaks hacking, soft vulnerable flesh- dead eyes, a shot splintering through skin and bones- dead eyes, froth on a mouth-dead eyes, only dead eyes, and they watch, they watch even if they don't see anything.

The world loses scents, salt and sand fill his senses, everything turns less sharp.

He squints. Then it starts to creep in his healing bones. He feels every fading bruise, he feels the muscles buckle.

Today, it seems, is not a day in his favor.

He feels weak. His whole body suddenly is not advised by pain but overpowered.

He stares for too many pulsing beats of his blood.

His fingers twitch, his face falls. Then his body gets pushed back against the heavy wind. A whipcrack of his body falling. Flashes of pain drag over his ribcage like sharp nails.

He doesn't expect anyone to notice. Or help. He just lies in the soot, the sand has spread right into his mouth.

The sounds of the island seem far away. Numb nerves and dead cold skin, the Ghost starts to crawl a step, trying to stand up.

One of the figures he has watched as they have watched him wander a bit has moved. Tall, short shaved hair, strong grabbing hand lifting him up.

The Ghost has a wiry, coiling build by now, grated by hunger and pain, surviving, but he remembers enough about war to know most soldiers will aways be better fed and excessively better in shape than him.

His heart is pulsing through his veins heavy.

"I can walk," The ghost feels the touch on his shoulder too heavy. It is a genuine, straightforward grip. He looks back, up, to the face.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." The Ghost answers.

"Barrow-" A voice shouts through the stormwind and the howling cacophony.

That is a name that catches the Ghost's interest.