It was terribly hot. Your shirt was sticking to your back and even the occasional sip of a cold drink didn't help cool your body down. On top of that, the air-conditioning in your car, which was anything but black, didn't work. Perfect. Perfect.

You held the steering wheel with your right hand while you slowed down at a red light. The window wide open, your forearm resting on it, a little overhanging the car, but you didn't mind. Summer, summer... bloody hot summer.

You watched the traffic light boredly, waiting for that dream green light to finally turn, and just somewhere in the back of your mind, you caught the sound of an approaching car. Um... no. Motorcycle.

And then there was the touch on your bare arm and you nearly jumped. A pair of thick, black, bone-motif gloves skimmed over your hot skin and were gone in an instant, as was your arm, which was pushed back into the car.

The biker lifted his visor a little, revealing a black balaclava hiding under his helmet. Oh... Lieutenant Ghost.

"Hands on the wheel, kid," his voice was muffled, raspy, but easy to understand. He stared at you for a moment, even though you couldn't see his face, his eyes, you knew he was staring at you.

You were both heading for the base. Just one in style and the other in a beat-up Fiat.