Ghost: Part 1 free porn video

Ghosts: Part 1 by Harry Merck En route to Guatemalan demilitarized zone: 0135 hours local time The angry thudding of the Osprey blades shook me out of my stupor. "Can't sleep now, have to focus," I thought, quietly reprimanding myself. Here I was again, flying into the enveloping darkness of hostile airspace in a near-silent aircraft, about to drop into unknown territory where thousands of American-hating extremists were scouring the Honduran mountainsides for resistance of the newly formed regime. Exactly what I signed up for. What I didn't expect was to be on the verge of WWIII. This was just the most recent of three coup d'etates in Central America in the past year, all with the same reason. The last few deposits of oil on the planet were 700,000 feet below the Yucatan Peninsula and needless to say, everybody wanted it, including Uncle Sam. Not that we were here on any glorious patriotic mission or anything. There would be plenty of time for that later, once the massive political rubber band America's been stretching between itself and Europe actually snapped. No, we were here to cheat death at the hands of fanatics yet again. God I love my job. I looked around at the crack team I had assembled for this particular trip, each at their own stages of consciousness. Specialist Tom Davis was checking his knives, though he preferred "sword". I personally thought swords had no place in today's Navy, but once I saw how Davis could use them, I thought differently. That man could deal with an Olympic fencer in a heartbeat. Sgt. Rachel Diesso was slumped over her massive .50 sniper rifle, snoring loudly. I laughed quietly, thinking about the perfect, composed, model of the U.S. military she was when conscious. Perhaps a bit too perfect, I thought, as she was the only member of my squad who called me "sir". Not to mention she had fended off even the cleverest of approaches while on shore leave. Tex was in an uneasy sleep, no doubt thinking too hard, even while slumbering. Odd how we were supposed to be the smartest, fastest, and most effective unit in the Seals, but Tex seemed like an absolute retard when not in action. Actually, he probably wasn't going into action tonight, as he isn't the subtlest of agents. In fact, he was best described as a cross between Billy Connelly in the Boondock Saints, a pit bull, and a tank when fully armored. He's the "rescue" man, only going into action when things get totally fucked. Finally, my eyes rested on Sgt. O'Reilly. No doubt the strangest of our happy little gang, O'Reilly never spoke. The doctors said nothing was wrong with him, but after dozens of assignments together, I knew something was not quite right. No matter. How he chose to express himself was his call, not mine. Besides, as long as he can crack a maximum-security computer terminal in less than a minute, he could speak in Morse code for all I care. Together, we were BLACK-501, or the "Specter" unit. We were the elite of the navy, the best of the best, and according to official U.S. records, we didn't exist. If one of us was captured, there was no rescue mission, no hostage fund, and no operations acknowledging our presence behind enemy lines. We were the best team on earth, the most trusted units out there, and we knew more national secrets than the president himself. Apparently, that's why we were on this mission. To find out more. Our Osprey descended towards the staging area, where we would receive our orders. Davis roused Tex with a sound slap on the arm with the flat of one of his blades. Smack! "OW! What the hell was that for?" "Get up, you big baby." I smiled inwardly at this. Though I didn't show it, I was secretly proud of my team. Unlike most squadron leaders, I believed the chain of command was for pencil-pushing desk officers who don't know how to earn respect. I personally use the respect system, but either way, I'm in charge in the field. Even so, I always insist that my subordinates use my first name, Jim. I opened the large door to the Osprey, holding on for the rest of my team. I didn't know why, but something seemed fishy about this mission. The assignment seemed normal enough, but my soldier's sense told me something was wrong. Very wrong. I dismissed the thought for now; there was nothing to worry about just yet. As Tex left the chopper, I closed the door and followed the others inside the small building that was our staging point. Our orders were simple. Infiltrate the Honduran rebel's intelligence headquarters, where O'Reilly and I would retrieve mobilization plans and some other data, which we were told was vital to national security. During this, Davis would find and assassinate one of the rebel leaders, a man named Winston Lopez. I thought it was a bit odd how a third-world rebel group would have data affecting national security. Then again, almost everyone does nowadays. The problems are the ones who can actually do something about it. Our mission was a simple one. Grab some files, snap some necks, and leave. A simple retrieval mission. Right? ****************** Site 10-883255-A, coordinates classified: 0207 hours local time There it was again, that dull buzzing feeling at the back of my skull. Something was strange about this mission. Apparently, Davis felt it too, as his walk was careful and he seemed more paranoid than usual. "Hey Rachel," I said, sounding a bit more uneasy than I'd hoped. "Sir?" "What do you think of this assignment?" "Well sir, I think it is fairly straightforward." "That all?" "To be perfectly honest sir, I believe it to be- a bit- too straightforward." I knew it. We had our work cut out for us, and that was never a good sign in our line of work. I asked O'Reilly what he thought, and he just nodded at Sgt. Diesso. His way of agreeing, I would think. Suddenly, the hill we were walking up crested, and all five of us got a good view of the site marked 10-883255-A on our ocular cams, a good half- mile away down into a valley. Diesso quickly disassembled her .50 cal with practiced ease and drew a silenced IS-120 rifle. If there's one person in the world who knows range on a gun, it's her. It always bugged me how she was the definition of newbie to the Spec-ops world, but knew more about guns and the like than me. "All right crew, let's move. Tex, set up here, you know the drill." Three lights blinked once on my O.C., one green, one blue, and one yellow. Our target lay in sight, a building roughly the size of a high school hockey rink, with a watchtower, security outpost, and spotlights wandering along set courses. We slowly and silently hiked down, weapons at the ready, though there were no border guards. No setbacks with the lights either, as rocks and trees provided for good cover. I motioned for Davis to follow me to a small door in the side, where we began the infiltration. Houdini himself could only match Davis' skill with a lockpick, and the door was open in seconds, no alarms triggered. A green light flashed in my O.C., drawing my attention to O'Reilly. He motioned upwards at the camera we were under and looked at me with a goofy grin on his face. "Go ahead," I said, knowing exactly what he had in mind. I watched with a smirk as O'Reilly, silently laughing, reached upwards and attached a tiny fiber-optic cable to one of the wires. He slid his OpSAT out of its holster and deftly linked the cable to it, barely able to contain himself. Once the desired program was planted, he held up five fingers three times, indicating fifteen minutes until his little "present" activated. Fifteen minutes would be enough, as Davis and I had no intention of letting this one disappoint. Rachel's voice came in through my earpiece, "Sir, is this really necessary?" "No, but it's an excellent way to distract without triggering alarms and most of us get a good kick out of it." She sighed audibly and took her position just inside the door. Davis and I moved silently up a small flight of stairs and into a narrow hallway. The hallway was narrow, but had large slits on either side for heating pipes, and the lights were off, so darkness and confusing territory were on our side. "Let the fun begin," I said. *************** Anyone who rolls with Sergeant F.C. Jim Mason knows what "fun" means. "Fun" means popping security guards with non-lethal airfoil rounds and dumping them under staircases. It's a million times better than paintball in my book. Eager to get started, all four of us slipped down the maintenance passage, pausing at the occasional security camera. Infiltration is always riddled with unexpected surprises. When they happen, you have to be ready. If you're not, people die. That was our basic training motto. With me, things are just a little different. True, the first priority was the safety of your squad, but after that, the business in places like these consisted of two words: "kill count". So far, I had the highest rebel fatality rate, at 62 and counting. You have to remember, these people aren't security guards. Security guards don't kill innocent civilians for a "cause". Therefore, guards deserve to live, and live they will. Rebels, on the other hand, are fanatics. It's easier to beat yourself to death with a stick of bubblegum than it is to keep these guys down. Makes things simpler just to shoot them. I took point as we entered the main hallway. Ion filters showed a single CCTV camera pointed at a door across the hall. This wouldn't have been of concern if there hadn't been a pair of extremely ugly rebel door guards, which piqued my curiosity. I motioned to O'Reilly and pointed at the camera. Davis covered our backs as Rachel and I set up on either side of the door. Sean sighted his little "looper", a device that fed a repeating video to a CCTV, giving the impression that all is well. I lined up my weapon, putting a decent bead on the guard nearest us. Rachel's inhumanly steady hands lined her rifle up with the far guard's head. A green light flashed in my O.C. and I squeezed the trigger. An airfoil round and a "driller" bullet found their marks, and both guards dropped silently. "Hey Diesso, why the non-lethal?" "Look where I hit him," Rachel said confidently. Actually, I knew exactly where she hit him, and I guarantee you that man was dead. I really only asked because I wanted to see the look on Davis' face when she said things like that. Hitting someone in the temple from thirty meters away isn't easy. "When are you going to teach me to shoot like that?" I joked. "The day you start bleeding from the crotch, sir," she said, cracking a rare grin. An extremely satisfied team assembled under the camera after "hiding" the bodies out the second-story back window. Even though the loop was still running, and it would until discovered (which won't be for a while), I assembled the team under the camera anyway. I moved in and slid a fiber- optic under the door our ugly friends had been guarding. Cycling though the various filters, I saw an office, with one man sitting at a desk with several pistols, two grenades, a shotgun under the desk, a combat knife in his boot, and Mickey Mouse boxers. Oddly enough, there was a single camera in the whole room, and it was pointed at the door. I thought this was the only way in, but I noticed something else that made my day. There was a ventilation shaft directly behind him on the ceiling. This is almost too easy, I thought. I didn't have time to negotiate the pros and cons, but judging from the hair, the face, and the scar across his forehead, that man was Lopez, without a shadow of a doubt. I gave the sign for Davis to take the scenic route, and within minutes, a blue light flashed on my O.C. I flashed the "hold fast" sign, and on a whim, took out my helmet camera and stuck it under the door, pointing it at the desk and the ceiling. I watched the whole thing on my OpSAT, and I have to tell you, it was pretty funny. Davis slowly slid down from the vent shaft like Spider-man, hanging upside-down for effect. He hung there and waved at the camera, which only served to crack me up even more. It was just about here where we made a wee little mistake. Remember how I said infiltration is riddled with unexpected things? For example, a sneeze in just the wrong place can slaughter an entire team. Or in this case, try to kill a Specialist 1st class doing an imitation of Spider-man. That's right. Our target had a cold. He sat up sharply, and let out a sneeze that sounded more like a foghorn. Needless to say, we all jumped, and Davis almost lost his grip but stayed a ghost. Lopez tilted his head to sneeze again, but was rudely interrupted. A finger under the nose may not actually stop a sneeze. A finger under the nose and a razor-sharp knife at the back of your neck definitely does. The microphone on my helmet-cam picked up a small, but definitive, "Bless you," followed by a sickening snap I could hear from outside the door. I retracted my camera and motioned for the team to form up outside the vent cover Davis had entered. We continued towards the security center on the third floor, meeting with very few hostiles and leaving fewer alive. O'Reilly got his first kill of the night, which seemed to disappoint him somehow. We arrived at the door to the security center and took a peek inside. I don't know what you think, but it's a lot harder than it looks on TV to get four men into a security center silently. Luckily for us, we had an ace up our sleeves. O'Reilly's light flashed once on my O.C. and I looked at him. He had that goofy smile on his face, and was counting down on his fingers to his "present." 5-. 4-.3-.2-.1-. Right on cue, every security TV screen started flashing the most disgusting, grotesque and revolting pornography money could buy, and a loud voice came through the speakers yelling, "HEY EVERYBODY! I'M LOOKING AT GAY PORNO!" Davis and I could hardly contain ourselves as we burst into the room, silenced pistols blazing. With the guards surprised out of their minds at the sudden outburst of nudity, it was over in a matter of seconds. Seven guards, seven bullets, and seven more notches on our team kill count back home. O'Reilly's program only lasted for a few seconds, but that was all we needed. Promptly entering the room, our pro hacker was all business. Silently going about his work, he had the entire security network of the intelligence headquarters open for our inspection in 45 seconds. "Hey Sergeant, new record," Rachel said. O'Reilly just nodded and did that goofy smile of his. With the security system ours for the taking, nobody was going to touch us here. We all relaxed a little, but kept our trigger fingers ready for another engagement. I noticed the loop of the two guards was still running, and was somehow glad I'd taken that one guy down. He was uglier than Tex's mother, and that's saying something. "Nice job, people," I said truthfully. "How many is that for you, Diesso?" Rachel, who had sniped one from the other side of the hall, said, "Fifteen, grand total, sir." "Didn't think you had it in you," Davis said jokingly. "Hey, at least I use actual guns, not knives," she shot back. "They're swords, idiot. How many knives do you see with 28" blades?" "Hey, I'm just the skilled one here, how would I know?" "All right, that's enough," I interjected. "None of that 'till the mission is over." "Aye sir," they said, guaranteed to continue this later as they always did. We were nearly finished with the data, so I planned our exfiltration. "Rachel, I need you to get back outside and cover our exit. Davis, put that thing away and keep an eye on the cameras. O' Reilly, what've you got?" The only opened file was a blueprint, some sort of continental oil drill. I didn't have time to look at the specifics, so we just copied it to an OpSAT. As I turned to leave, O'Reilly tapped my elbow to get my attention. I gave him an annoyed look and gestured for him to make it quick. He pointed at a heavily encrypted folder, looking at me and shrugging. He didn't know what it was. It wasn't a mobilization plan, and it we already had the data we needed. I'm no computer expert, but I could tell that folder was locked down even tighter than the files we were here for. "Weird," I said, "bust it open." Inside was a picture file, along with an e-mail, of all things. I swiftly copied the files to my OpSAT, intent on studying it later. I turned away and was about to get ready to go, when O'Reilly grabbed my arm and yanked me back to the computer, pointing at the strangely coded e-mail. "I don't speak nerd. What is it?" It looked like gibberish to me. Just before the pressed what I assume was the "translate" button, Davis got my attention with a loudly whispered "Sir!" I shot a look at him and he pointed at the cameras. He looked at me with an expression I had never seen in him since basic training. Anger. He justified his expression with four simple words. "Multiple hostiles. Heavily armed." ************** I looked at the screen and saw exactly what I didn't want to. Clad in jet-black riot armor, six agents were advancing in what looked like a human wall down the hallway to our left. Now I know why Davis had been so angry. We had been set up. I shot a look at O'Reilly who, through what I'm convinced was telepathy, ran one of his scanner things on the email we had just opened. There it was, clear as day, a digital tripwire. "Let's go, Diesso is already out." I said, popping open the vent cover and practically throwing O'Reilly inside. Davis went next, and I last. However, just before I hopped in, I caught a glance at the decrypted email. The sender was- No, that can't be possible, I thought. Must be some sort of mistake or coincidence. I dismissed the thought and promptly climbed up the shaft, now positive I was going to take a closer look later on. We crawled for a few hundred meters, emerging somewhere on the first floor. Excellent, I thought. One window would mean we were home free. Unfortunately, we emerged from the vents in a very familiar room. One with a dead rebel leader in it and a camera pointed at the door. To make matters worse, someone was standing in the doorway. A very armored someone with an M-16A2. I didn't waste a second. I whipped my rifle up and plugged the man in the face with an armor-piercing round. Only after I fired did I realize my mistake. The guys we ditched at the security center probably just watched their buddy get nailed, and odds are, they weren't too happy. "Well, here we go," Davis said with a mix of apprehension and excitement. This was his favorite part of the missions. The time for subtlety was over. Stealth doesn't matter if there are human tanks with infrared goggles after you, and armor-piercing rounds only last so long. We decided a small change in gear was needed. I slung my IS-130 across my back, loading Senor Lopez's personal 8-gauge shotgun and gathering a bunch of shells. Davis took out his "Kevlar cutter", a fearsome-looking specimen with an edge you could cut yourself on just by looking at. With his other hand, he took a rather large Colt .45 out of the desk, checking it out with an approving eye. O'Reilly picked up the M-16A2 the man in the door dropped and loaded a grenade into the launcher's chamber. We were ready. Davis' fiber-optic camera revealed two more hostiles standing at the ready, so I slid a flash-bang under the door to soften them up. Our little friend the Kevlar Cutter got to both soldiers before I could even raise my gun, which disappointed me somehow. Suddenly, fire erupted from the stairway to our left, and two AP rounds later, another tank-man lay dead. Unfortunately, those two rounds were the last armor-piercing ones we had. Davis and I looked at each other, then at the staircase, then at the three agents advancing down the stairs. All three of us booked it down the hallway, only to be halted by fire from our pals behind us. O'Reilly found some cover behind a decorative pillar next to the wall and put their heads down with a few bursts from his rifle. We saw a rather large window that was only one corner away from a straight shot at the ridge, but as the spotlights were concentrated on windows, we decided to take the long way out. I gave the sign to fall back and we resumed our flight down the hall. A second later, we ducked into the maintenance passage we had come in. A hostile skidded around the corner and almost followed us in. Almost. As soon as he passed a ridge-facing window, a crack louder than thunder sounded and the whole thing shattered. Even I winced as the contents of our pursuer's head splattered themselves all over the far wall. Sixteen for Diesso, I thought. Davis led the way down the passage, and we burst out the back door into total darkness. "Okay lads, night vision," I said. If I had known what I was going to see, I probably would have rather stayed in the dark, so to speak. I flipped the night vision feature of our helmet goggles on, hearing that extremely satisfying "Phweeeeee" noise. I opened my eyes behind the goggles, immediately wishing I hadn't. Someone who looked an awful lot like Winston Lopez was standing twenty feet away. He spoke but three words. "Kill the others." I thought it was over. I really did. At least, I thought it was over until the man next to Lopez's head was given two more holes. Diesso's extremely well timed bullet carried through the head, nailing Lopez in the arm and throwing everything into disarray. I had barely lifted my rifle when something green, conical, and very fast slammed into the ground behind the rebels. For what seemed like the next minute, everything seemed to be going in slow motion, without any sound either. The ground behind our "friends" was ripped apart by the resulting explosion, as well as a few of the aforementioned friends. Before the shockwave hit me, I couldn't help thinking, He should have just shot me. And then, all fell into darkness. ********* Consciousness is a false friend in some cases. I would much rather have been unconscious than awake when my blissful sleep ended. I couldn't see, but it didn't seem dark. My head felt split open in a million places, like a hangover on steroids. I felt like I had a week's worth of cottonmouth my throat was so dry, and I couldn't move my limbs. Hell, I couldn't even feel them, and what few parts of my body I could feel were aching like no other. Not that I haven't been in situations like this before, but there was something- different this time. "Urrrgh," Was all I could manage. Even with a throat drier than Death Valley, I noticed that my voice sounded odd. Take it easy- Jim. You've been through a lot," said a familiar voice. "Don't worry about where you are, you're safe. You're tougher than you looked." Looked? I recognized the voice as one of our stateside doctors, a man named Spalding, or something. "Okay Jim, can you hear me all right? Nod if yes." I nodded. "Good. The sedatives should be wearing off any minute now. Can you see?" "Ig ghant ee shit," Good enough, but my voice still sounded weird. As if on cue, my vision slowly started returning, as well as my speech. I took in my surroundings, despite being more than a little groggy. I appeared to be in a bedroom, one that had been converted into a mini-hospital ward. I was in a wide double bed with a nightstand on each side. My I.V. hung from above the headboard, suspended on a wall sconce. The doctor was sitting in a chair next to the bed, constantly glancing between me and an OpSAT, which judging from the Red Sox sticker on the back, was definitely mine. He spoke quickly, as if stopping me from something. "Jim, I advise you not to speak for a minute. Your condition may be a bit of a shock to you." Spalding gave me a strange look, and asked me an even stranger question, "Have you ever heard of the MTU project?" I nodded, thinking of the device we had been shown recently (courtesy of a recon mission in a Korean medical bay), supposedly involved in organ transplants or something. I hadn't really been paying attention during the briefing. "I'm going to be direct, as you aren't one to beat around the bush. Before you ask, you didn't get an organ transplant. That's not what the machine was built for. Your body was far too damaged to even attempt putting new organs in." I did not like where this was going. "So, we did the only thing could possibly save you. Long story short, we got you a new body. The acronym MTU stands for "Mental Transfer Unit", and it was built for transferring minds, memories, and consciousness from one body to another. My intentions were to save your life at all costs, and we only had one body prepped for mental insertion." I definitely didn't like where this was going. "Are you ready to see- yourself?" he asked, as if I had a choice. I nodded. He gave me a hand mirror. I did NOT like what I saw. To be honest, I had expected someone average. A 5'11", perhaps 200 lb, well, guy. Instead, I saw someone far above average, but in no way a guy. An incredibly pretty face stared back at me out of the mirror. She was a brunette, her eyes were a deep root beer brown, the kind you could get lost in. Her face was just barely short of stunning, but in a realistic sort of way that only lent to her appeal. She looked to be about her early 20's, a good deal younger than I was. It took me several seconds to register that it was me staring out of the mirror. "Oh shit," I said. It was more than a mere understatement. I put the mirror down and turned toward the doctor, more in shock than in fear, and asked him, "All of me?" He nodded reluctantly. With some effort, I slowly reached up my shirt and came into contact with two soft globes protruding from my chest. Despite the alien- yet somehow pleasurable sensations I received from them, my hand shot out of the shirt like they were touching a hot burner. I looked at the doctor in confusion and he just looked away as if sad. Not to toot my own horn, but I'd be sad too if I saw the leader of the best Spec-ops squad on earth like that. I decided the final test was needed. My hand seemed to automatically creep down towards what I'd known was there my whole life. It was gone. All I felt was a small mound, completely bald, with a fleshy, moist, and very sensitive slit underneath it. I realized right there that it wasn't just my manhood that was gone. Everything I knew, everything I loved was gone. My job, my body, and my identity, or lack thereof hit me like a brick wall. I don't remember what happened after that. The doc said I fainted, but I personally think there were some sedatives still in my system. I woke up several hours later alone. The room was lighter, and I could actually move this time. I looked at my new body in half disgust, half curiosity. An odd combination, I know. It was so strange with these new additions, my chest felt like there was a constant weight on it. Of course, this paled in comparison to the utter emptiness I felt in my crotch. Somehow putting those thoughts aside for now, I slowly got out of the bed, intent on finding the doctor and getting my old body back, forcefully if necessary. My first attempt at standing was not a pretty sight. I felt like my entire center of gravity was off, which I reminded myself, it probably was. Steadying myself on the bedside table, I yanked the I.V. out of my arm and wobbled towards the door. I gained confidence as I walked and slowly my balance returned, albeit shaky. I rested myself on the doorknob, mentally preparing myself for what might be a long walk in this strange body. As it turns out, I didn't have far to go. All of a sudden, the door flew open and a very distracted looking young man promptly ruined all my efforts at moving by barging into me at a very fast walk. I crumpled to the floor (much to my eternal shame), unable to stop myself. The guy looked horrified and embarrassed, quickly helping me up and attempting to regain some dignity. I was NOT in the mood to accept chivalry. "I'm so sorry, miss! Are you all right? I wasn't paying attent-" "Can it, I'm fine. Now who are you and who're you calling 'miss?'" "Oh, I'm Dr. Spalding's assistant, Greg. And is it Mrs.?" "Sergeant F.C., actually. And I'm not a-" I stopped myself right there, realizing that this guy wasn't exactly aware of my predicament. "Not a what?" He asked. "Never mind. Where's Dr. Spalding, I need to have a word with him." It was more of an order than a question. "In the kitchen, he asked me to check on you." "Did he now? And what did he tell you about me?" Might as well figure out how much he knew while I still could. "Er- severe trauma, possible brain injury-" "All right, take me to the kitchen, I need to talk with the good doctor." A thought struck me that probably should have when I first awoke. "Wait a minute, what do you mean 'kitchen'?" "Well, this is Dr. Spalding's house ma'am, I'd be more surprised if he didn't have a ki-." "WHAT? What the hell am I doing in his house? Why am I not in a fucking military hospital or something? And how the hell did I get back from Honduras so fast? And where's my fucking team? And what am I doing in this body? AARRGH!" Only after a few seconds did I realize what I said, which probably freaked out the poor assistant more than I anticipated. My head was spinning so fast I could hardly see straight, and though I wanted to stay standing, gravity had other plans for me. I hit the floor for the second time, only this time more painfully. I sat on the floor trying to collect my thoughts for a minute, then looked up at Greg and said simply, "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" "Ah- maybe you should go back to bed, I'll get the doctor for you-" He stammered. I didn't have the energy or the balance to argue, so I just leaned on him and went back to bed. I woke up again looking at the blank ceiling. I was still in that world halfway between sleep and waking, when a thought ran through my head, unbidden, unprovoked, and completely alien. Remember what happened? You're not Jim anymore. I sat bold upright in bed, everything coming back to me in a blur. The weight on my chest, the emptiness in my crotch, it was all still there. "Fuck." It seemed to be the only thing to say. "Cranky today." Said a voice I thought I'd never hear again. "Aren't we, sir?" *************** It was two days after my transformation that I was given the worst news of my life. Dr. Spalding told me something I'll never forget. There's no going back, Jim. The mind can't handle two transfers, and this is extremely experimental technology. It's just not possible without forcing you into a coma! You'll have to accept your fate- I'm sorry. So this was my fate. Instead of dying in the line of duty like I was supposed to, I was to rot away in this- shell of a body. I'd always known I'd get some sort of karmic retribution for all the men I killed, but not like this. Ever since that conversation I'd known that if I were to live outside an insane asylum I was going to have to go along with whatever fate threw at me. Unfortunately, this included accepting the fact that I was now a woman, through and through. Rachel, who had miraculously returned unhurt, took an extensive leave to aid my recovery. She helped me through severe depression in the first few days, much like I had after her first kill. In spite of all her help, I was still fighting an uphill battle with my conscience. Part of me felt like I was betraying myself, telling myself something that wasn't true, the other part was telling me the same thing, but from a more logical standpoint, saying that I was a woman now, and I should get on with my life. Somehow, someway, the latter was the better sounding of the two. With that in mind, Diesso had taken it upon herself to give me lady lessons. Oh joy. After learning how to walk again, I was marginally more comfortable moving under my own steam but still a little weirded out by the whole center of gravity thing. Apart from the lady lessons, Rachel's kindness knew no bounds. She had gone and bought me cloths, underwear (after an extremely awkward measuring session), and other things I didn't even recognize. When asked why she was doing this for me, her only response was "because I owe you everything" and nothing more. Now, I don't like to boast, but she did have a point there. I saved her life on several occasions, so I suppose that made sense. Then again, I hate holding debts or grudges, even those involving life and death. As it turns out, I had been in this body for just over two weeks now, most of which was spent sleeping off the effects of the MTU thing. Shortly following my walking lessons, Rachel decided that the following day I should make my first female outing in public, or "debut" as she so eloquently put it. The next morning, she surprised the hell out of me by picking out a miniscule t-shirt and a pair of shorts that were WAY too short for my taste. "What the hell is this?" I blurted. Now, she may have talked me into wearing girl's underwear, but God help the one who tries to put me in Daisy Dukes. I may have lost a good ninety pounds of solid muscle, but that wouldn't stop me from bringing the wrath of Kahn on someone's ass. Fortunately, my reluctance to hit women was still alive and well, so I just waved her off. "You honestly think I'd let a gorgeous body like yours go to waste?" "I honestly think you can shove those... wait, what?" Diesso showing attraction to someone was definitely a new one on me. She blushed and turned away quickly. "You all right?" I asked, concerned. "Yes, fine... I've just never... I'm fine," she responded quickly. After a few seconds of awkwardness, turned back around with the shorts and said with a mischievous smile, "Well, if you don't wear them, I'll invite a big muscley Latino man to-" "Oh that's just what I need, male attention," I said, dripping sarcasm. "I'm still going to wear these ones," I pulled a pair of boy's cargo shorts out of one of her shopping bags, "And I'll kick Jos?'s ass, too." I jokingly pulled a face at her that widened her smile; even drawing a bit of- dare I say it, a giggle? It didn't seem possible, but seeing her giggle nudged me out of the fog I had been in for the past week. I cracked the tiniest of smiles, which brightened her eyes just enough to brighten mine. Then she did something I had never seen her do. She laughed. The vaunted Sgt. Rachel Diesso actually laughed. As if by chain reaction, something happened to me that I hadn't felt since high school. I took a closer look at Rachel's face and I realized something I'd been trained against since I was eighteen. She was beautiful. I may sound like I'm getting all mushy, but I swear to God she looked better than I'd ever seen her. It was like her laugh made everything just- fall into place. Suddenly, I found myself getting hotter, despite the temperature in the room. I felt an odd tingling near my new bits and pieces, confusing me just enough to take the sarcastic smile off my face. All too soon, the melodic voice that freed me from fifteen years of restriction trailed off. I realized I was staring at her with wide-eyed revelation of what was happening to me, and she was looking back the same way. We looked at each other for longer than either of us knew, lost in the blazing green and deep brown of each other's eyes. They didn't matter to me anymore, all those rules and regulations, all those taboos, restrictions, and unwritten laws. All that mattered now was her... no, not her... us. As if by some exterior force, I vaguely felt my hand reach out and brush the russet-colored hair out of her face, pausing on her cheek. She closed her eyes and gently felt my hand upon her face with a sensual, yet nervous look. I knew what was going through her head, most likely chapter and verse of the U.S. Navy code. But somehow, I also knew that she didn't care anymore. Throwing the code to the wind, I planted my lips gently upon hers in a long, slow kiss that seemed to last... forever. But all good things must come to an end, and poor Greg was the one fated to end our moment. "Sergeant F.C., I was looking at the.... oh my-" Rachel snapped to her senses and broke away, looking shocked at what she had just done. Greg gave us a horribly embarrassed look and promptly exited the room. "Oh God... did I just... oh God..." Rachel stammered, "I... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," I said quickly, but it was too late. Rachel had slipped out the door, leaving me caught in a tempest of thoughts and emotions, none of which made sense to what was left of my spartan-trained mind. I sat down heavily on the bed and let my head fall into my hands, regretting what I'd done more than ever. That night, I had a dream. Somewhere, an old man in a bathrobe was watching a crystal ball, laughing his ass off. End part 1