[i]Rapid gunfire sounded all around him. He was squatted in the mud, rain pouring down over him. The stink of five unwashed young men mixed with the smell of old cow shit as they huddled behind an old cattle truck. His breathes rattled out of his chest, his gun held close to him. It's cold metal was a comfort for him. He held it under his coat to keep it dry; the only false sense of safety he could find in this scene. His platoon had been mowed down. Bodies laid all around the village. Military soldiers were moving in. He was pretty sure he was going to die.[/i]

Khari startled awake. He didn't even remember falling asleep. The cold feeling his dream left over him slowly faded into the back of his mind as he sat up. There was someone outside his kennel, a whitecoat, staring at a clipboard and writing. Khari's dark eyes glared evenly at him for a while, waiting for the doctor to walk away. But he didn't.

"Buckle up kid, you'll be going on a ride soon." The man finally spoke, not looking up from his clipboard.

"A ride?" Khari shifted to sit with his legs crossed. "To where?"

"Out of my hands, hopefully. You flunked out of Eraser school, so you're not my department anymore. That's a shame too, you could have been real useful."

"I won't be your fodder for war," Khari growled.

"Fodder. That's a new one; you've been reading those damn books again, huh?" 

"Why would you give me books you don't intend for me to read?"

"Cooperation is a valuable thing around here, kid." 

The doctor took a page off his clipboard and stuck it on the kennel, marking it to be looked over by the Director whenever she made her rounds through. The whitecoat then turned and walked away briskly, leaving Khari to sit and ponder uncertainly about what this would mean for him. If he was transferred, would he still be able to get his books?