The dark skinned man rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and groaned deeply. His eyes trembled and forced themselves open, although the surroundings were no more visible now than they were. A sticky film seemed to glue his eyelids to the wet pupils underneath and it was a conscious effort just to pry them open. A gray haze clouded his vision as he attempted to sit up in the hard, uncomfortable bed, but then the IV line tugged obnoxiously at his wrist and it shook him out of his fog.

"What the--?" he asked groggily, glancing around the bright green tile room. Florescent lighting washed down on him from the white ceiling and monitors were scattered about his sterile, almost too clean habitat. The room was small and somewhat barren, the trademark bland hospital furniture spread haphazardly over the irritatingly colored tile floor. A small television jutted from the upper corner of the room, but its screen was blank.

"Sergeant Wilkinson," a voice said calmly from just to his left. He twisted, his neck arguing slightly with the unwelcome motion. A balding man with glasses wearing a lab coat and carrying a clipboard was looking at him with concern. "You’re awake."

"Yeah…I guess so. What happened?" Lonzo Wilkinson sat himself up, a sudden pain in his left shoulder searing like a white phosphorous flare just under his flesh. He grunted loudly in pain, and lay back down gingerly.

"Hmm…looks like the morphine is wearing off. We’ll have to get you some more." The doctor jotted down notes on the clipboard that he was carrying.

"Look, Doc…hold off a sec," Stalker asked, leaning forward just slightly.

"Yes, Sergeant?" the doctor asked.

"What am I doing here? What happened…I’m a little fuzzy."

"Hmm…that’s to be expected. You took a bad blow to the head as well as the wound in your shoulder. You were stationed at a base not too far from here. I don’t know the details, but there was a gunfight and explosion, apparently."

Stalker grimaced, as he searched his memory. It was vague. "Damn! Why can’t I remember?"

"There were four other men brought with you…I’m afraid you were the only survivor. Some Federal agents locked the place up tighter than a drum, so something happened there."

Stalker rubbed his eyes with his dark fingers. His vision blurred slightly, but his mind raced. He pictured the four other soldiers. The kid and the three guards…all young, all green recruits thinking that they had innocent guard duty. Now they were gone. But Stalker couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what happened. He scowled in frustration and slammed his fist on the edge of the mattress.

"Sergeant…you must calm yourself. I will get you some more painkillers, please just lie down and relax. There’s nothing you can do for your friends now. Do you have any family we can call?"

Stalker laid his head back and closed his eyes. "No, Doc…no family…" he drifted off to sleep, visions of bullets and bursts of flame dancing in his head.

The halls of the Pentagon were clean and unremarkable. The walls smooth with soundproof padding, the floors slick and metallic. General Hawk’s thick combat boots clanged softly on the hard floor, deep under the surface of the Washington, D.C. City streets. They were six levels down in the famous Washington building, with Top Secret clearance and most of the rooms at their disposal. Two pairs of boots echoed in the smooth hall behind him, just flanking him on either side. The General wore his dress greens, while the two men following him wore their recognizable battle togs. Duke matched his supervisor stride for stride in his tan shirt and green khakis. His dirty blonde hair was neatly crewcut as usual, but the usually present grin was nowhere evident on his face. A small, round, green grenade bounced lightly against his chest, fastened securely to the dark leather strap that ran from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Falcon marched in tune just to Hawk’s left, clad as usual in his green and brown camouflage fatigues and green beret. The neatly pressed, but somewhat baggy uniform was the trademark of the Special Forces unit to which Falcon belonged, and despite the jungle style camouflage, he did not look out of place in this military institution. Down this deep underneath the surface of The Pentagon, strolling soldiers in full battle gear were almost commonplace. There was nothing to hide at this level…if you were down this far under, then it was assumed you knew what was going on in these sealed rooms and behind the locked doors. Said doors were scattered along the walls of the corridor, each one without a label or markings of any kind except for a simple room number. Two men in dark, menacing camouflage, assault rifles at the ready and eyes watching every move you made flanked most. The door that the three men approached was no different. There were two especially large men there, faces directed straight ahead, hearing or seeing nothing but blank wall. As the General approached the unmarked door, the two guards snapped to immediate attention.

"At ease, Gentlemen," Hawk said lowly and they dropped back into a relaxed posture. The metal door slipped open with an almost silent hiss, revealing the planning room behind. Hawk walked confidently inside, Duke and Falcon on his heels. The room was a large, busy technological marvel. The contents inside were classified most top secret, so only Joes were allowed in. A square room sat directly in front of the entryway, its main piece of furniture a large, illuminated map table. The black, plastic table was quite big and glowed ominously, several powerful light bulbs inside trying to blast their way out. The square room had an empty back wall, which actually led to a more rounded, even larger room, the walls buried by banks of supercomputers, radar screens, and monitors. Lights flickered on and off on the computers, which hummed a soft, soothing lullaby. Faint florescent lighting blanketed the rooms with a foggy white haze, and Hawk’s eyes began to ache already. He hadn’t had nearly enough sleep in the past two days, and he could tell that this room was going to be his home for quite some time. Mainframe skidded across the smooth floor in a swivel chair, zipping from one wall of powerful computers to another. He whizzed by Dial Tone who sat still in his swivel chair, a thick set of headphones pressed firmly over his ears, slightly crumpling the black beret on his head. Duke cleared his throat none too silently. Mainframe whirled around in his chair, surprised by the sound. Evidently the computers had muffled the noise of the opening door. As soon as he saw Hawk, he sprang to his feet into a crisp salute. Dial Tone remained seated, blissfully ignorant of his surroundings. Mainframe shot out his right foot and caught the swivel chair square in the backrest, sending the seat lurching forward. Dial Tone’s eyes shot wide as he stumbled forward comically. His headset yanked itself off as he whacked his forehead on the glass screen in front of him. If Hawk weren’t so blasted tired, he would have burst out laughing right then and there. Dial Tone spun to cuss out his partner, but noticed the men standing by the doorway. He swallowed hurriedly and jumped to his feet as well, snapping off a quick salute. Duke and Falcon smirked at each other behind Hawk’s back.

"Relax, Joes," Hawk finally said, putting the two men at ease. He strode calmly past the lit, black table and joined the two experts in their field in the computer room. "What do you have for me?" he asked simply. Duke and Falcon followed him for a few steps, then broke off and stood at opposite ends of the large plastic and glass map table. Duke leaned on his hands and glared down at the glowing section of Earth staring back up at him. It was a map of the Gulf of Mexico, with only one major land mass showing. Cobra Island. He looked back up at his fellow Joe and they exchanged nervous glances. Mainframe rolled his swivel chair over to another bank of supercomputers.

"Well, Hawk…not a whole lot yet. We’ve only been down here a couple of hours while you grabbed your nap. Didn’t you have a chance to sleep on the flight from MacGuire?" Mainframe asked, turning.

"Yeah, right…second long beauty rests between having my butt chewed out by all the different branches of our government."

Mainframe shut up. Apparently it had been an uncomfortable flight for the General. He had wondered why he was on a different plane. It was a small passenger one instead of the more common C-130 that was usually used to transport military personnel.

"Have you checked out the radar data?" Hawk asked, composing himself slightly.

"No, sir. We were hoping Blackout would be here with his new imaging program. We’ve heard great things about it." Mainframe replied, glancing over to Dial Tone. The communications officer nodded vigorously to reiterate the point.

"Okay," Hawk replied. "We’ll get the kid in here as soon as we can. He’s a little busy at the moment."

The two Joes nodded. A small, yellow light flickered on the panel in front of Dial Tone. A shrill buzz alerted the occupied Joe to its presence. The moustached man looked down and scooped up the handset that rested in a small, narrow cavity embedded in the panel.

"War room, Level Six," he said calmly. It was a secure line. Dial Tone’s eyes grew slightly. "Yes, sir. He’s right here, sir." He said rapidly. He swiftly handed the headset over to Hawk. "Secretary of Defense for you, sir." He said, twisting his face into a scowl of worry. Hawk merely rolled his eyes and extended his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Secretary?" he said in his most professional voice. "Yes. Sir…made it safe and sound. Yes, sir…we’re just about to go over that, sir." Hawk spoke cleanly and evenly, his face locked in a neutral position. His hand clutched the receiver tightly, a small vein poking up under his tight skin. Suddenly, his eyes popped open slightly, and his fist tightened even more. "Excuse me, sir? I don’t think I heard you right…" he glanced down at the gray receiver in his hand in disbelief. Hawk waited, giving the Secretary a chance to explain again. "Is he sure, sir? I’m not so sure that’s a wise decis—" he was obviously cut off and Dial Tone could hear the slightly raised voice on the other end, although he could not quite make out what was being said. "Well, sir, that’s his prerogative. Let me go on record as saying that I don’t agr—" the voice raised again. "Yes, sir…there is no record…I understand, sir." Hawk’s eyes lowered slightly. His empty fist was now tightened, more veins threatening to burst from their fleshy prison. "Just ask him to reconsider, please, sir. I believe this decision is not in the best interest of the American people." Hawk walked slowly away from the bank of computers, but the thick, curled cord would not let him go far. His shoulders sagged and his head hung. He looked like a man defeated. "I will let them know, sir. Thank you." Hawk lowered the phone from his ear and walked slowly over to the computers, his arm hanging low with the receiver dangling loosely. He actually chuckled slightly and shook his head in bewildered disbelief.

"General?" Duke asked. He had walked over during the rather animated conversation.

"That was The Secretary of Defense." Hawk dropped the phone lightly into its cradle. "The op is off. The Vice-President has decided that any course of action might be deemed a ‘revenge tactic’ and considered as a personal vendetta."

Duke and Falcon stepped closer. They had an awful feeling about where this was heading.

"The Vice-President doesn’t want to make any rash decisions. According to him, there isn’t enough proof that it was a Cobra plot. He doesn’t want American soldiers shooting up an uninhabited island. He wants to postpone the Cobra Island Op until next January."

"You mean, after inauguration," Duke sneered.

Hawk nodded, his eyes roaming.

"So what are we supposed to do with all of these Joes who just re-upped?" Falcon’s voice bordered on a shout.

Hawk paced slowly along the smooth floor, his mind searching for answers. "I assume they all stay active. Continue training until January." Hawk crossed his arms and continued to scan the small room.

"But do you think Cobra will stay dormant until then? They have a reason for this, sir. They always do!" Dial Tone was up and out of his chair.

Hawk halted his motions, a clear resolution settling over his blue eyes. "Calm down, boys," Hawk said, a slight grin twisting up the corners of his mouth.

"The Secretary didn’t say anything about abandoning this room or equipment." He twisted his blonde hared head from Joe to Joe, visually taking in their reactions. Understanding seemed to be settling in with everyone there.

"I think we’re still in business here." The other Joes began to grin.

"Mainframe?"

"Yes, sir!" Mainframe said, proudly.

"Find me those radar files. Go back as far as you can. This Pentagon brass wants proof? Hell, we’ll give them all the proof they need!" he shouted and the other Joes in the room grinned widely. For the moment, anyway, the old General Hawk seemed to be back.

The faint white shard of moon shone like a jagged beacon in the thrashing waves of the uneasy ocean waters just off of the west shore of Cobra Island. A virtual blockade of thick forest cut off the central part of the island from the crashing, angry surf on the west coast. The water mixed with the land to create a thick, marshy swampland, which quickly became plentiful wet forest. The somewhat dark night was made almost pitch black under the plump canopy of trees. Trees of many different shapes and sizes grew here, thriving off of the strong, fresh soil from the relatively newly formed land. A lack of constant use and misuse did nothing but help the prosperous woodlands’ growth. So thick were the trees that even only a quarter mile from the former Command Center of Cobra Island, the ruined, broken buildings were all but invisible. From inside the woods, there appeared to be miles and miles of nothing but nature, which is exactly how Cobra wanted it. The nature of the west coast of the island made it very tough to defend, so the raging woodlands helped keep the Island safer. Not only that, but the southwest corner, where the island was so hard to defend from was almost impossible to reach without travelling through Cobra’s powerful, but undetectable radar umbrella. This very strong satellite dish was embedded in the towering volcano on the eastern side of the island, the powerful waves of sound and light broadcast through the open top underneath a thin, lava colored façade. By any conventional forms of radar or detection, the island did indeed appear uninhabited. Nothing but a vacant airfield, unmanned machine gun nests, cracked and deserted watchtowers and a graveyard of concrete bunkers and other constructs. Deep beneath the thick cover of treetops and the even thicker cover of dark night, near the west coast, a small group of Night-Vipers roamed through the trees. There were five of them, each one similarly equipped. They wore the standard issue green and black uniform, a large backpack carrying the necessities. A shotgun was securely strapped to each man’s right thigh, and they all carried small submachine guns, fully automatic, but easy to carry and use. The weapons were small and lightweight, with a large handle, even longer clip and anther smaller handle near the front of the barrel to steady the aim. A scope traversed the length of the gun, starting thin, then broadening out towards the barrel. The sight was not a necessity for the Night-Vipers, as their powerful night vision goggles were covering the top halves of their faces, a small telescope jutting out from each one, bringing the otherwise pitch blackness of night into the eerie green haze of focus. A thin black helmet covered their heads, and in this environment, they were all but invisible. A large Night-Viper led the group, the man close to six and a half feet tall and tipping the scales near three hundred. Even not equipped with state of the art imaging equipment and an automatic weapon, he would have been quite intimidating. The group was operating under silent signals only and the large man at the lead commanded his four troops through the thickness of the forest. They were far enough from the shore so that they walked on dry land, and amazingly, the men tread through the thick underbrush, making barely a sound. They carefully pushed thin branches aside and skillfully ducked around the branches too thick to push aside, each man cradling his weapon with ease and assuredness. The front man halted suddenly and held up his hand, the signal having its effect immediately as every other man stopped short as well. He tapped the side of his head three times and the third man in line eased out and slipped up next to him. The Night-Viper crouched to one knee, and swiftly slung his backpack off of his shoulder, then whipped out a small instrument with a thin metal antenna protruding from the top. He held the instrument carefully in the palm of his hand and pressed a small button with his thumb. The antenna jerked and unfolded into a miniature radar dish, thin segmented metal unfolding from it like a steel peacock’s silver feathers. Keeping the dish still, he unhooked an unseen switch, then pulled a jack out from the bottom, a cord unfurling silently with it. With a soft click the Night-Viper inserted the jack, which was reminiscent of a stereo headphone jack, into the side of his thin fiberglass helmet. Immediately a luminescent Heads Up Display blinked into focus in his goggles. This little contraption had been the pride and joy of Destro, who eventually wanted all Night Vipers equipped with the portable radar system. A grid spread out inside the goggles of the Night-Viper and calculations immediately began processing inside the small box in his hand. Still keeping his eyes glued to the lit HUD inside the helmet, the soldier quickly tapped his skilled fingers over the small, but effective keyboard built into the small object. As the Night-Viper manually filtered out the background movement and wildlife noise, the HUD slowly focused in on the moving object just to the east of their current location. The target was located. The Night-Viper quickly relayed the coordinates to his leader via quick hand signals, and seconds later the portable radar was back in the backpack and the small group of night warfare experts were on the move again. The leader signaled the change from night vision to thermal readouts, hoping to hone in on the one object in the forest at a healthy 98.6 degrees. Even as they approached the location of the moving object, its heat read out still had not shown up. The Night-Viper Squad Leader looked around, feeling somewhat foolish and perplexed. With a quick hand signal, he ordered everyone to switch back to night vision and they did so, spreading out slightly to cover more ground. The leader branched out first, wading thick into a bunch of dark trees. The next two wandered off slightly to the right, the radar operator walked off to the left, the one holding up the rear dropping back to cover their path. Quite suddenly, as soon as the team had separated, a blur of movement caught his eye. The rear guard twisted quickly, trying to follow it, but it disappeared. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his facemask, but halted, remembering the order for radio silence. He thought better of it and pressed the talk button, but too little, too late. A thick, bare arm wrapped tightly around his throat and pulled fiercely, yanking him from his feet. He felt himself tumbling backwards, his night vision goggles spiraling through the air only feet away. Those feet had might as well been miles as he felt the air blasting from his struggling lungs, as his legs quivered under his weight. Coughing haggardly, he cursed himself under his breath as the twisted angry face bent over him before he passed out.

"One down," the voice hissed as it lay the unconscious Night Viper on the wet surface of the jungle floor and proceeded forward, crouched low to the ground. He was a large, broad monster of a man, but moved with the swiftness of a predator, born and raised in these very jungles. His muscles meshed together and moved with an uncanny fluidity, almost more jungle cat than man. The hunter’s twin white, pupiless eyes seared through the cool night air, scoping for his next prey. He jerked his head one way, then the next, stood still for a second, then whipped to his right and seemed to vanish into the forest.

"Night Viper Squad Leader…status report, please," the man in the blue jacket growled into his communicator clutched in a tight brown-gloved hand. His short black hair was cropped just above his eyes, which were narrow slits. "Respond."

"Squad Leader here," the voice crackled from the walkie-talkie. "I thought you wanted radio silence, sir."

"I did. You just broke it, Squad Leader. Pay more attention next time! Aleph out." The man sneered and clipped the radio back onto his belt, scowling. "Buffoon," he hissed, shaking his head. "How he ever made Squad Leader, I’ll never know."

"Jerk." The Night Viper Squad Leader hooked his own radio back where it belonged, his eyes narrowing into thin lines of anger. His green visor was pointed up into the air, revealing his irritated face underneath, which he had had to reveal to speak to the organizer of this little practice session. The Night Viper let his submachine gun dangle on its leather strap at his side and pulled the bolt action rifle from its home on his right thigh. "This whole little fiasco was his idea, anyway," he growled, squinting through the scope perched on the shotgun. His breath drew suddenly in as the blue green blur rippled across the crosshairs, then melted into the shadows. "What the--?" the Night Viper asked to no one in particular, but then realized he was in trouble. With a swift motion, his visor slid down over his face and he transferred power to the thermal imaging. There was nothing. His heart pounded in his chest as he turned carefully, the shotgun tightly grasped in his black leather gloves. He had seen motion…motion with a human heat signature, and bigger than any animal out here. Was it him? He wasn’t sure, but secretly hoped not. Although his mission was to take the guy out, and if he succeeded, maybe Aleph would show some respect. Night Viper Sampson had been with Cobra from near the beginning. Starting out as a lowly communications officer before joining the Eel corps, and finally the elite of Cobra Troopers, the Night Viper squad. It had been a long hard road to Night Viper Squad Leader, and he was more than a little resentful at Aleph’s holier than thou attitude. He had just shown up, brought in from the Night Creeper guild, and suddenly he was a troop commander. Some things in life were just not fair. Sampson continued his tight circle of patrol, his visor humming silently as he searched for the elusive signature.

"Where are you, Z—?"

"Closer than you think." The voice hissed from just behind, and Sampson had to hold himself from shouting out loud. He spun, lifting the weapon, and scowled behind the helmet as his opponent moved in swiftly. Sampson was a very large man by any standard, but moved quickly, the rifle discharging in a loud, sharp KRAKK, but his enemy was already within his range of motion and the weapon was not even a challenge. He whipped his black gloved fist around in a tight arc, close to his large body and drove it deep into the Night Viper’s ribs. Sampson’s breath blasted out in a muffled gasp underneath the black mouthpiece that covered the lower part of his face. In another fluid motion the attacker twisted the other way, bringing his left fist up at a sharp angle. It caught the large Squad Leader under the jaw, breaking loose the mouthpiece and sending his green visor spiraling through the night air. His shotgun flew from his grasp and dark blood spewed from the man’s mouth as he stumbled back, his vision already clouding. But he was a large, well built man, and planted his foot and didn’t fall, his face twisting to an almost happy sneer, now visible with the face mask broken and laying scattered on the jungle floor. His knuckles cracked as he stepped forward, ready to take on this challenge. The other man stood before him, his arms planted on his hips, a smile skimming over his features as well. His bone white eyes took in his opponent and he twisted his neck, snapping some vertebrae back into place, his brown cowl swaying with the motion. The Night Viper charged in, whipping his fist forward in an arrow straight line, but the other man jerked swiftly out of the way and brought his knee up, blasting it into Sampson’s gut. The force threw the Squad Leader from his feet and he tumbled to the ground, but rolled and was instantly back on his feet, even as the mysterious man charged back at him. The Night Viper neatly parried two thrown punches, dodged a vicious roundhouse kick, then drove his own leg forward, crashing it into his enemy’s plexiglas like chest plate. It collided with a dull CLONG and sent the man stumbling backwards, but he didn’t fall. He drove his foot back into the dirt and halted his momentum swiftly, digging a shallow trench in the soft dirt ground. In this light, the shadows danced over the man, parts of his body actually melting into them before becoming solid again once the shadow vacated. His face was drowned in darkness, his strangely patterned face paint drawing the black in and making his features nearly indiscernible in the dark night. The only things that showed on his shadowed face were the two narrow, white eyes with no pupils. Just shimmering bright pools, boring deep into the soul of the man he now fought. Another thing was visible as he stepped forward, somewhat out of the shadows. His toothy, broad grin.

"Well fought, Sampson…let’s see what else you have." He ran forward, his eyes still shining like beacons in the night. The Night Viper stepped to the side and pushed the other man aside with a chop of his hands, but his opponent was too quick and planted his feet, then changed directions, coming right at him. Suddenly the man hit him full on in a vicious football tackle, and he felt himself being thrown roughly to the hard ground, and then flipped over and slammed back first. The grinning man now stood above him, his fist cocked, with Sampson pinned underneath his forceful grip.

"You lose—"

Suddenly white light flashed from what seemed like all directions at once, flooding the small clearing which had become a ring of sorts for these two men. It struck the crouching man with an almost physical force, making him wince.

"No, you lose," Sampson said, grinning now himself. Two Night Vipers appeared from the trees, their submachine gun mounted tac-lights shining brightly into the eyes of their prey. The white-eyed man in the dark cowl remained crouched over the sprawled Night Viper, his head twisted up towards the other two men who had just entered the equation.

"Trap is sprung, Zartan," one of them said, a little too eagerly for the shape shifter’s liking.

Zartan smiled thinly, his white eyes narrowing. "Didn’t Sampson here ever teach you?" he asked, shifting his weight ever so slightly. "Shoot first, ask questions later. The game’s not up until I’m ‘dead’!" he threw himself forward with lightning like speed, covering the ten feet to the Night Vipers in milliseconds. They shifted their aim, stumbling slightly as Zartan honed in on them, already too close for weapons use. His arms shot out and latched onto one of the Night Viper’s arms, which still clutched the automatic weapon. As he jerked down, tossing the night expert from his feet, he spun and his left leg shot out in a solid straight back kick, catching the second Night Viper square in the upper chest. He gasped and flew from his feet, then slammed onto the ground flat on his back, a few feet away from the other one, which was sprawled ungracefully on his stomach. Before they had even stopped moving, Zartan had disappeared into the forest.

"Blast!" Sampson shouted, plucking his weapon from the dirt. "On your feet, boys! We can’t let him get away now!" he charged into the woods, even without his facemask, his eyes were trained and adjusted to the inky blackness. He could hear the other two men spring up and join the chase close behind, trees rusting and boots thudding along the forest floor. The Night Vipers couldn’t afford stealth and silence at this point, their prey mere feet in front of them. The Squad Leader figured Zartan was thinking the same thing, as he could hear the frantic pounding of feet and thrashing of loose branches just ahead. The green leaves on the tress faded to a blur and the night sky was a vague background as the team of Night Vipers pounded through the brush, their breath coming in ragged, harsh gasps, and their legs pumping feverishly. Sampson drew his weapon in between inhales and pointed it at the rustling branches ahead of him, preparing to fire. Suddenly his foot struck something jutting from the ground; a thick, strangely shaped mound and he hurtled forward, shouting briskly. The weapon flew from his grip as his eyes grew wide, and he hit the ground, rolling clumsily, swearing all the way. With a defeated grunt and gasp, he picked himself up off the ground shaking his head. He stared up at the other two Night Vipers who stood uncertainly where he had fallen.

"What?" he demanded. "What are you waiting for? Continue pursuit!"

"Boss," one of them said softly, staring down at his feet. "You may want to see this." He pointed toward the ground where Sampson had tripped. There was an awkwardly shaped mound there, not a root as he had thought, but a definite form. A large form. Man-sized, in fact. The Night Viper Squad Leader leaped to his feet and strode over to the motionless lump that lay on the forest floor. When he had a good look, he drew back suddenly, taken quite aback, his eyes widening.

"My God," he whispered at the form on the ground. He’d recognized the uniform as soon as he’d jumped up, after all it was identical to the one he wore. It was a fellow Night Viper, but not a healthy one. He lay on the ground, face up, eyes wide and bulging, staring into the night sky. His goggles and facemask were tossed aside, lying a few feet away, and his green body armor was twinged red. A few streaks of blood ran across the bottom of his face, but it wasn’t dried yet. The kill was fresh. His hand was formed in a twisted clench, the portable radar tilting from his fingers and resting on the ground, the thin wire cord still attached to the helmet.

"He’s dead," Sampson said simply, not even bothering to check for a pulse. "Zartan went too far this time." He shook his head angrily.

"I didn’t do this," the voice came from the trees, a low hiss.

Sampson turned as he knelt down, and half noticed the green tint fading from his flesh, which had made him invisible against the trees.

"What?" the Night Viper asked, scrutinizing the shape shifter.

Zartan remained in a low crouch, studying the body. "I didn’t do this, Sampson. It wasn’t me."

"Look, we’re the only ones out here…"

"See this?" Zartan asked, sticking a finger at the neck of the dead radar operator.

"What about it?" Sampson asked, looking closely, but not too interested.

"A slit in the rubber suit under the body armor. Look." He stuck his fingers against the black clad neck of the dead trooper. They pressed into the rubber surface of the bodysuit underneath, and spread apart, spreading the black as well into a wide but smooth slash. There was no flesh visible underneath, only red gore, just barely starting to clot.

"So?"

"His throat was slit. I don’t have a knife on me, do I?"

The Night Viper squinted at him, not convinced.

Zartan huffed and stood straight, standing tall over even the other standing men. "I don’t have to explain myself to you," he snarled and started to walk away.

Sampson jumped to his feet and wrapped a strong grip around the metal shoulder pad of the shape shifter. "Where do you think you’re going?" he demanded.

Zartan turned only his head, his eyes drilling deep into the Night Viper Squad Leader, his mouth twisting into an angry growl. "Someone else is in my jungle, Sampson. I mean to find him." The look on Zartan’s face conveyed the meaning well enough and the Night Viper released instantly. With a swift dart, Zartan vanished, swallowed by the thick trees. The Night Viper shrugged, then turned to his compatriots. "All right, boys. Pick this guy up. We’ve got to tell Aleph what’s up." He didn’t want to, but was slightly relieved to have this little training exercise halted. They plucked the corpse from the ground and headed towards the treeline, unaware that another pair of eyes watched their every move.

The dark shroud of night had settled across the bare stretch of relative desert, the small military hospital the only illuminated building in the surrounding area. Lights shone from windows like curious square eyes with cloth shade lids pulled down halfway. In his room Stalker tossed and turned in fitful sleep that usually follows after a night of violence. Images danced in front of his closed eyes, familiar, yet mysterious floating, rippling, blossoming dream visions of a man put to bed with a healthy dose of medication. The young recruits’ pained faces warped and shimmered in his mind’s eye, the pained look of the youngest one as he was gunned down a lasting image. His mind tried hard to piece together the other scenes of that night…the explosions, flames and gunfire eroded almost every other image that he could gather together. His dream world was numerous clouds swirling together, and forming into a vague, metallic image. Something that Stalker should have recognized…should be remembering but couldn’t. The images of the guards joined this swirling mass and wound together as if sucked into a bizarre supernatural whirlpool in his dreams. The metallic object bubbled and rippled and spun, desperately trying to form itself into a comprehensible image as Stalker rolled over in his sleep. Vague features presented themselves on the metal surface…a small nose bubbled from the molten surface and formed a small silver knob on the ever-changing metal palette. Two small rectangles split from the surface and opened up into small slits. Eye slits. Two piercing eyes shot open from behind these slits as another rectangular shape morphed and twisted into a mouth, teeth bared and snarling. Stalker rolled back over, mumbling as a large orange explosion roared in his dream, obliterating the face. The yellow and orange faded, and the gray dream-clouds slowly drifted away and the two figures stood in the gaping hole blasted through the wall as clear as day. Both dressed in black leather, one male, and one female. She wore glasses and hair down to the small of her curved back, the man in a cold, hard, unyielding steel mask, a small whisper of gray smoke drifting from the rocket launcher on his wrist. Stalker’s eyes shot wide open with sudden revelation.

"Destro!" he shouted loudly in the empty room. He held a hand to his head, then whipped it around, desperately searching for the call button. Finding it, he slammed a clenched fist on it as hard as he could, pain searing through his shoulder even from such a simple movement. He sat up in bed, groaning slightly. "I remember…I remember everything," he mumbled softly to himself. A nurse quickly slipped through the door into the darkened room.

"Sergeant Wilkinson?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

Stalker was already up and out of bed. "Where’s your nearest phone? I need to make a long distance phone call…to Washington, D.C.!"