As he disassembled the damaged craft, the Fury allowed his thoughts to drift; it was all routine by now, hover craft maintenance. At once, he reached a startling conclusion: it was cold. Very very cold, despite the temperature regulated space suit.

"You've made progress."

He turned abruptly, half-expecting to find someone watching. There was no one, no one at all, and he laughed to himself despite the empty room.

“Yes, progress.” He answered, returning to his work. “If you love something… be prepared to destroy it.”

The Fury wouldn’t have given further thought to the voices in his head if the Fear had not confessed several days before of hearing the same voice. Familiar and soft spoken, the unforgettable voice of a comrade, even long since departed.

“What are you?” The cosmonaut asked to the empty room, not expecting an answer. It defied logic and reason. Voices and ghosts. “Why do you linger…here?”

He was fully prepared to wait all afternoon for a reply, but the noisy interruption of Leopardus pardalis immediately set him on edge.

“You.” He hissed, “don’t you know how to fucking knock?” Instinctively, the Fury glanced at the flamethrower and jet pack, sitting only a few feet away, then glared at Ocelot pointedly, like some cornered wild animal.

That would never work. The young Major was far too quick for him, and he knew it.

“I know why you are here.”

The Fury smiled slightly at Ocelot as he picked up the screwdriver he had been working on the hovercraft with. He was only smiling because he was imagining driving the tool deep into the eye socket of the arrogant Major.

Those pale blue eyes, so familiar, and the End had noticed it first.

“You’re a fool to come here looking for me. I have no reservations about killing you and torching your corpse so no one will ever find you.”