Sometimes, in this society of ours, we reserve a title for those who do not conform. A title for those whose homeland lies elsewhere, whose spirit is of another dimension. Sometimes, we call these nonconformists "mad." But where does the boundary of sanity cross over to the boundary of insanity? And who, of all the imperfect creatures that fill this world can claim the power to lay out this fence that is so easily breached?
Where does the line lie? When do we cross it? How do we cross it?
Ask yourself these questions, and dwell on the answers. For once the breach is made, there is no returning to the fold.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"His name is Rolf Wilhelm Kestner, 33. Removed his middle name when he hit legal age, eighteen. Studied at the Bundesuniversitat Stuttgarts, graduated summa cum laude with a Masters in Organic Chemistry and Inorganic Chemistry. Stayed in school for a extra two years and picked up a PhD in Polymer Chemistry," said the Deputy Director, a gray, wizened man sitting behind a small desk in the dark, cramped office.
"Christ," muttered Gregory Michaels, "what a waste."
Michaels was one of the most distinguished career soldiers in the Liberty Navy. After volunteering at the age of seventeen, Michaels decided that war was the life for him. He flew with distinction, fought with distinction, and he followed orders without question.
This, thought Gregory Michaels, was the true road towards achievement in the military.
The Deputy Director continued, ignoring Michaels's comment. "When he was twenty-three, he joined the Rheinland Military. Not much is known about this period of time, since our friends over there are not too quick to share. Flew a bomber, I would assume, becoming known as 'The Mad Bomber of Stuttgart.'"
"Why?" asked Michaels.
"Beats me," said the Deputy Director, "Kessler performed excellently and eventually promoted to Lieutenant Commander. Five years ago, Kessler defected from Rheinland to Kusari following an engagement between his unit and large contingent of Red Hessian pilots."
"The KNF were reluctant to receive him at first, so they hired him as a freelancer," continued the Deputy Director, "They thought their fears were confirmed when Kestner 'defected' to the Blood Dragons. He joined several high ranking Dragon officials on a base in Chugoku, where the apparently went turncoat."
"What happened?" asked Michaels.
"No one knows," said the Deputy Director, picking up a manila envelope and opening it. He reached inside and withdrew a photo.
Michaels pulled the photograph across the table from the envelope. "Is this him?"
"Yeah," said the Deputy Director, "Freeze frame from a survelliance camera just before the entire area was leveled."
Michaels held the photograph closer to his eyes. The picture itself was blurry, but the figure within was clear. Perhaps, it was the glare from the flourescent lights above, but Michaels had a difficult time looking at the man in the photograph.
The face of pure evil? mused Michaels.
Michaels turned his attention to the landscape. Walls were charred, tables upturned, and the ground freckled with miniature craters. "I know Rheinland was also developing some kind of supersol..."
The Deputy Director laughed. "No, my boy. Rolf Kessler, aside from being intelligent, is no different from any other man."
"Then how? How is this possible? The Blood Dragons are smart people, why couldn't they stop this?"
"Explosives. Classic explosives. The air in the area reeked of nitroglycerin and rocket fuel. KSP found several tons of primed oxyliquits under the site. Seems like the guy wanted to landscape the area."
"Christ..." murmured Michaels.
"He vanished from Kusari after the event. The Blood Dragons refer to him as 'kuroikaze,' or 'Black Wind.' Anything that's near him has a tendency to," said the Deputy Director, "die."
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"You're going to excercise extreme caution while transporting Kestner back to Rheinland. I've got faith, but don't want to see you in a body bag," said the Deputy Director. He pressed a button on the holophone on his desk. "Send him in."
With a hiss the door of the small, squalid office slid open. Gregory Michaels turned his head ever so slightly to see a huge heavy-set man step inside the office through the door behind him. The man wore an yellow jumpsuit and kept his hands behind his back. The door hissed shut.
Was this Kestner? thought Michaels. The photograph had been too unclear for Michaels to actually determine the madman's real build, but the man in the yellow jumpsuit simply looked too different from Michaels's image of Kestner.
"Andrew Lee," said the Deputy Director, "LSF. He will also double as your extra protection."
The heavy-set man behind Michaels nodded.
"Mr. Lee has been posing as a prisoner here on Fairbanks for the past five months. He will be occupying the cell opposite that of Kestner's on the Prison Liner," said the Deputy Director.
"Do you really think that this is necessary?" asked Michaels.
"I don't doubt your ability, Lieutenant," said the Deputy Director, "but I do want to take every precaution. Besides, it would be a disappointment to the Rheinlanders if we failed to deliver."
"The liner will be escorted by a complement of four Avengers and a gunboat. A cruiser will be waiting at the Hudson gate for you, but you are to take the Bering gate. There, a Rheinlander squadron will join the LSF escort."
"So the cruiser is a diversion?" asked Michaels.
"Yes," said a voice boomed behind Michaels.
Though his periferal vision allowed him to see the man, Michaels turned around to face Andrew Lee. The man extended a hand.
"Special Agent Andrew Lee," grinned the man, "but those who really know me call me 'Cutter.'"
"Lt. Greg Michaels, Navy," said Michaels, clasping the man's hand.
Lee suddenly gripped down on Michaels's hand. Surprised, Michaels pulled his hand from the man's grip.
"Heh," smiled Lee, "you just make sure you do that if Kestner offers to shake your hand."
"Why's that?"
"Cybernetics, don't want to deal with that."
Michaels looked at the Deputy Director, and frowned. "Cybernetics? What else haven't you told me?"
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"The man hacked off two-thirds of his left forearm so that he could install a piece of machinery on it instead," said the Deputy Director. The man sighed, pulling open a drawer and taking a small tin box out.
"He did this to himself?" asked Gregory Michaels.
"Yep," said the Deputy Director, opening the box, "he had the Rheinlanders install an older model too. One of the really old ones, the ones that they fused to the skeleton."
"Jesus, but that means that he can't feel his arm, can he?" muttered Michaels.
"Nope, and he needs an external power source for it too," said the Deputy Director. He took out a cigar from the tin box. "The thing is so old that it can't run on body heat. So the cybernetics is no problem. Don't worry about it."
"I just wanted to point out to ya that fact, too," said Lee, the LSF agent posing as a prisoner behind Michaels, "We've observed him for some two years now. Unless he is really good at faking it, and I mean really good, the arm is as good as dead."
Michaels nodded. "But why did he get an older model?"
"Dunno," said the Deputy Director. "He served on Holstein for awhile. The low temperatures there can affect new models' performance. Cigar?"
"No thanks," said Michaels. He wanted to see the man for himself now.
------------------------------------
Footsteps. Even footsteps. The even footsteps of polished shoes that click upon the ribbed metal surface of the floor. What monotony.
The footsteps grow louder and louder, like the constant tapping of a woodpecker looking for grubs in a tree. Time is constant, but life is not. Like the footsteps against the surface of the floor, time keeps ticking, on, and on, and on. What monotony.
The footsteps stop. There is a loud clank and one of those abrasive noises that makes your skin prickle and sends shocks down your spine.
Light. A beam pierces through the dusty, dank air of the closet-sized cell, but stops short of penetrating the concrete wall within.
There is a voice. "Rolf Kestner!" Was it hatred in that voice, or was it fear? Fear of the unknown, the unfathomable, the incomprehendible?
A tinkling of chains as something within the dark cell moved. The door swung outwards, and the dim, purifying light bathed the once barricaded abyss.
He could not see, as his eyes needed to adjust to the light. But, he could feel the fluorescent light dancing upon the smile on his lips already.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"Kestner! We're moving you via prison transport. Get up and move it!" shouted a voice. The sound echoed harshly down the silent corridor.
The creature within did not step out. Three men and a woman outside the cell stared into the depths of the horizontal abyss. Though it was only five feet deep, the cell resembled the lair of the monstrous Kraken, which only emerged to snatch men's lives and their ships beneath the rumbling waves.
One of the prison guards hesitated, stepping forward, then stopping himself. The woman looked into the cell.
"Ro..olf Kestner!" she managed. "Step out, slowly!"
"Use all caution necessary, Sophia, all caution. When he is out, have the men inspect him throughly. Be careful about that contraption on his hand. It might be unpowered, but he'll still use it as a bat of some sort. Use all caution."
"Yes, Director."
Only against direct contact with another human being did the woman suddenly realize that she was shuddering. The man is shackled, she thought, Why the hell am I scared? The woman glanced at the darker skin of the reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Soph, chill," said the owner of the hand. The man drew a baton with a strange coil on one end. He stepped towards the cell and rapped the baton against the gate that once sealed what they all believed as a demon within.
"Soph." The guards suddenly heard.
There was a suddenly rustling as the figure within lifted himself to his feet with surprising dexterity for a man who had been locked in a 5 by 5 by 6 cell. With his sudden movement, the guards all stepped backwards.
"Jesus," muttered one of the guards. "Slow movements only!"
"Soph, short for Sophia," said the same voice in a clear Libertonian accent. There was no madness, no fury, no hatred, no jealousy, no passion, nor prejudice. There was nothing, besides words.
"It's a nice name," said the voice, louder. "Ironic, though."
"Whatever you do, Sophia, don't talk to the man."
"Sir," said Sophia, "This is what I joined the navy for. I'm a counselor. It's what I do."
"Madmen do madmen make, Sophia."
"How so?" asked Sophia
"Sophia," said the voice, moving out of the cell, "mean's wisdom, doesn't it?"
The emerging figure, clad in the typical yellow jumpsuit, looked everything but out of the ordinary. It seemed to turn it's covered face towards Sophia, but the other guards at once surrounded the figure, grabbing the man by the arms and dragging him out into the light. The speaker's face was unrecognizable, hidden from view by a mass of dark hair that hung from his head like the leaves of a weeping willow. The man infamous for the murders of nearly seventy members of the Blood Dragons was, in fact, quite unassuming. There were no bulging muscles, the man himself was an average sized man, at most six feet tall. Lithe and thin, the man looked almost like a dying plant with dark leaves that covered it's top. The only thing that distinctively separated this man from the average criminal was the metallic gray that extended from halfway up his left forearm.
Such was how Rolf Kestner stepped onto free ground again.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"Listen, kiddo, most of this stuff is pure red tape. You walk in, they push you out, then put a little mark next to your name. The Rheinlanders will just put you on trial for some random crime, and you'll end up in front of a dozen rifles, the Brets will seize your assets accidentally, and the Kusari can claim treason for any little thing that ticks off the shogun. But here," said the Deputy Director, tapping the surface of his desk, cigar in hand, "we have laws. But we manipulate these laws, you see. Here, we'll dig up stuff. Make your life a living hell."
The Deputy Director tapped his table again. Michaels, who had been staring at the cigar in his hand, looked up to the sound of two sharp clicks that came from the Deputy Director's rings as he tapped the table.
"So," said Michaels, "you don't want me to know more about the man that I'm about to risk my life escorting because you want me to be safe later."
"You can put it that way." The Deputy Director puffed on his cigar. "Mr. Lee, would you please?"
Lee, who had been sitting behind Michaels quietly, rose and shuffled back towards the door. The Deputy Director pushed a button on his holophone and the door hissed open.
"Lee is reporting back to his cell on the Vanguard," said the Deputy Director, "You'll be making your way there too, only later. Light?"
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
Gregory Michaels left the Deputy Director's tiny office with lit cigar in hand. He proceeded down the narrow corridor of Prison Station Fairbanks in the desolate space of the Alaska system. Two hours ago, he had flown his fighter through the restricted Zone-21 region, escorted by two LSF Avengers. Alaska was a wasteland, the stepping stone of humanity into the realm of the unknown.
Michaels stuck the cigar into his mouth and attempted to take a puff, choking on the thick smoke.
"Hey buddy, you okay?"
Michaels wheeled around to find himself staring at a tall, well built guard. The guard smiled at him.
"Robert Lewis," said the guard, extending a hand, "LPI Fairbanks Chief Warden. You must be Greg Michaels."
Michaels hastily swapped his cigar to his other left hand, and shook the larger man's hand firmly. "Good to meet you."
"Nah, It's my pleasure, Lt. Michaels," said Robert Lewis, the Chief Warden, "I'm glad to be workin with you on this one. The boys and I have heard a lot about you on the news channels. You're quite the hero around here, you know?"
"Really?" asked Michaels, smiling.
"Mmmhmm," said Lewis, "We 'eard about that time when you wouldn't leave your wingman to be swallowed up by those Xenos in Colorado. You hung out for hours with him in that dead shell of a ship he was stuck in until backup arrived."
"Heh," muttered Michaels, "I was going to be his best man. Wasn't going to let the opportunity."
Lewis chuckled. "Well, Lt. Michaels, I'm off now, gotta run some diagnostics on the docking doors."
"Something wrong with them?"
"Nah, nothin' to worry about," replied Lewis, "It's just that the doors are automatic, you see, and they'll close too early for a ship the Vanguard's size. One of the engineers 'round here fixed up the program specifically for the Vanguard only it hasn't been tested yet."
"Ah," said Michaels, "Well I won't bother you then."
"Alright," said Lewis, "I'll see ya around!"
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
"We are fragile creatures, living in a fragile world. At least, that's what we'd like to believe, don't you think?"
"Is that what you believe?"
The two sat in a small, dimly lit room, facing each other, separated from each other by a ten foot long table made of a dull, whiteish metal. One was shackled - bound to his seat by metal cuffs attached to the arms and two forelegs of the chair. The other, though free, sat similarly, as if she were bound by some invisible cuffs on her own seat.
Sophia lifted one hand from the arms of her chair and massaged her neck.
"God no." Was the reply.
"So, Mr. Kestner, what do you believe in?" asked Sophia, bringing her hand down to her chin and resting her head against it.
The man across from the Federal Certified Psycologist made a laudable attempt to shrug, grinning one sidedly. "Why do you want to know?"
It was Sophia's turn to shrug. "Maybe I'd like to get to know you better."
Frankly, she did not. Frankly, Sophia did not want to be on Prison Station Fairbanks. She wanted to be home in her apartment on Denver, relaxing in a hot spring, or even walking her pet dog in the cold weather. Sophia wished that she could wish herself away in a cloud of magical smoke and disappear of the face of the system that they called Alaska.
It was an appropriate name, she thought. Desolate and empty, your worst enemy out here was nature. It was an appropriate place for him, she thought, but not for her. She belonged in a warm, comfortable place, not a place were the only thing between imprisonment and freedom through death was a few inches of heavy alloys.
Sophia stole a glance at the man sitting across from her. Though she was sure that Rolf Kestner was insane, he unfortunately resembled the average, carefree, and poorly-mannered human being. She looked at the man's file on table before her.
"So, why Lib..." began Sophia, but the man interrupted her.
"We are, fragile people," said Rolf Kestner, "but we don't live in a fragile world. This universe has survived much more than us - five world wars, thirteen plagues, and other natural disasters beyond our imagination. It's lasted much longer than us. To it, the human race is simply a second in a long, dreary dream."
Sophia looked up at the man, who had lowered his head, staring at his cuffs on the arms of the chair.
Kestner looked up. "Why not make our existence a little more memorable? Put a few dents here and there. Kill some people. Blow up a few transports filled with schoolchildren on a field trip. Crash a Blood Dragon wedding party. Get the world to look up and stare for a little bit."
"You have a sick sense of the world," said Sophia, glaring at the man. She stood up, closed the folder containing the man's files, and walked to the door. Sophia pushed a button on a panel on the wall. "Guard."
"Heh," muttered Kestner, "You say one thing, but you believe in another. I notice how you look at me. One look and you think, how can someone, or is it something exist? It puzzles you, doesn't it?"
"So," said Sophia, "It's all about getting attention, isn't it?"
Rolf Kestner grinned at her. "In a way. But then again, I'm just a soldier who's good at following orders. You're the philosopher."
Sophia glared incredulously as the door to the interrogation room hissed open.
She left, and Rolf Kestner was left alone. Looking around him, he found nothing. He edged his chair back as far as possible and glanced under the table.
Finding himself alone. He began to chuckle. Then he laughed.
Fairbanks was a desolate, secluded station, just like the room that Rolf Kestner was in. Until someone looks inside, nothing is fact, only assumption. Nothing could be certain.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
Gregory Michaels stared out into the vast, eeriely green expanse that was Alaska space through one of the porthole-like windows that lined the secure levels of Prison Station Fairbanks. Strange, amoeba-like organisms floated mindlessly about in the mediumless void. Though Fairbanks was much more advanced that these creatures, something was clear though. This was their home. They were comfortable here, and Fairbanks was not.
Michaels chewed on the end of the cigar that the Deputy Director had insisted that he take. He had refused the light. After all, the stuff was horrible tasting and probably bad for his lungs as well.
This was a relegation.
A chewed up cigar fell to the ground. Humans did not belong here, and he should not been here. Gregory Michaels stared outside the porthole-like window. In a way, he was not so different from Rolf Kestner. Perhaps, if they got to know each other better, they could even be friends. Michaels mused at the probability for a few seconds before he heard a series of quick clicks. Heels, though Michaels.
He turned towards the sound and saw a young woman striding towards him, folder in hand. Michaels studied the young woman. Pretty, but intellectual, he thought. He decided to ignore her and turned his attention to one of amoeba-like creatures that had plastered itself to the surface of the station.
Michaels heard the clicks go past him, studying the creature. Suddenly, the clicks stopped.
"Is this yours?"
Michaels turned around to find the young woman holding up his chewed up cigar.
"Errr," began Michaels, "Ummm..."
"Well, this isn't a trash dump," said the woman sharply. She held the cigar out at Michaels.
"Thanks for the heads-up," smiled Michaels, putting the cigar back in his mouth.
She squinted at him. "That's been on the floor!"
"I've had dirtier."
The young woman shook her head, tossing some of her short golden brown hair behind her shoulder, and laughed at Michaels. Her voice had a charming, ringing tone that seemed to lighten the melancholy that seemed to permeate the entire base. Michaels couldn't help but smile.
"I'll take it out of my mouth if you'll let me buy you a drink," he said, holding the cigar between his teeth.
"Kester, this is your cell," said Robert Lewis, the chief warden of Fairbanks. The man wore a standard Liberty Navy uniform. Unlike most of the prisons in Liberty space, Fairbanks was fully maintained by the Liberty Navy, not the LPI. After all, companies could not be trusted with prisoners like Rolf Kestner. Fairbanks was for the worst of the worst and those who really did not belong in prison. Essentially, it was where the Liberty bureaucracy kept those whom they did not want the public to know about. From a BPA officer who came close to uncovering a military coverup to a former mistress of a senator from Denver, Fairbanks housed them all.
Of course, the station was also used as a base for the Liberty fighter patrols in the area. Juneau base was close to the gate, but Fairbanks was further into the Alaska system. As a result, the station was well supplied, well-armed, and well defended, possessing five fighter wings.
Lewis walked into the room that would become Rolf Kestner's cell and checked the thin mattress and scanned every corner of the room. Kestner was dangerous, but he also required the tools of his trade. The guard was careful to look for anything in the room that could be used as some kind of weapon.
The Director of Defense and Lewis had made sure that Kestner would not be able to pull his usual tricks. The newly built prison liner Vanguardhad an answer: state-of-the-art prison cells designed to contain one prisoner. The room only had three walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The door was actually a modified, high density, molecular shield pioneered by Ageira Technologies that ran on an independent power source. This way, even if the Vanguard's engines failed, the shield would be maintained, and Kestner would have no way to escape.
The last time Kestner was kept in Sugarland, he had somehow managed to synthesize thermite from the iron in the bars of his cell, killing his cell mate and severely burning an unsuspecting prison guard. This time, they were sure that these incidents would not happen again.
Lewis scruitinized the room one last time. When he was sure that it was clear, he motioned for the other guards to move Kestner into the cell. The room did not even have an air vent. This time, Kestner would not escape, thought the guard. It was only a pity that the Director of Defense would not be able to see them off.
The guards shoved Rolf Kestner into the room with his feet and hand still chained. Kestner sat on the thin mattress and grinned at the guards. Snickering, Lewis pushed a button on a panel next to the cell wall and activated the shields.
"Stay put." Lewis pointed a menacing finger at Kestner. "Or I'll rip that smile off your face myself."
Kestner grinned wickedly.
Suddenly, Kestner lept from the mattress with amazing alacrity and slammed his mechanical left forearm into the shield wall. The wall turned a fuzzy yellow and screamed with excitement. Lewis and the other guards jumped back. Kestner grinned and laughed, returning to the mattress and lying down.
"And of course, I told him that it would never happen," said the young woman to Michaels, laughing over a cup of Liberty ale. They were the only people in the small, but cozy bar on Fairbanks.
Michaels laughed, not exactly getting the joke. In a sense, it was quite funny, since he was just about as giddy as the young woman.
"You know," began Michaels, but he was interrupted by a heavy, inhuman, hand on his shoulder. Michaels turned around.
"Greg Michaels?" asked a voice. Michaels leapt up. It was Kestner!
"Rolf Kestner?" exclaimed Michaels, "What the Hell?!"
He turned to the young woman, who was still double over, laughing.
"I think it's time for a little bodily restoriation," said Kestner, grinning wildly. With sudden speed, Kestner seized Michael's forehead with his left arm.
Michaels sat up in a cold sweat, somewhat dazed. Nightmare, he thought., panting. Just a nightmare.
"You okay?"
Michaels turned and glanced at Sophia, who was still tucked in next to him.
"Yeah," he murmured, "I'm fine. I need a drink."
"Okay," she replied.
Getting out of bed, Michaels walked into the small bathroom in his quarters. He stared at the mirror and put his hand to his forehead. Nothing there, nothing gone. It was just a dream, he thought. Just a dream.
Quote:[7:42:05 PM][6:51:36 PM] Igor (Smokey): btw terry
[6:51:48 PM] Terrance Cooper: Ye?
[6:52:00 PM] Igor (Smokey): nothin
[6:52:03 PM] Igor (Smokey): just sayin btw
[6:52:05 PM] Terrance Cooper: <_<
Quote:Johnny_Haas: you shot anti criuse speed rockets!!!
Johnny_Haas: but why????
Johnny_Haas: ??
Johnny_Haas: why you shoot criuse speed rockets?
