To the north lay Military Base Four—a lonely outpost in the desert.

If there was one thing Commander Griffith hated, it was sending people to fetch him. But if he didn’t, innocent people would pay for his selfish inaction.

"Breathe in, breathe out," he murmured. "Alright... I'm ready."

Clearing his throat, he called, "Officer, a word in my office, please."

"Yes, Commander!"

"I need you to go get someone for me, and it’s going to take you some time, so pack a few days’ clothes."

"But, sir, aren’t there others better suited for this kind of job?"

"Yes, but I’m choosing you. Listen up. I’m briefing you now, so pay attention to everything I say, and don’t forget a word."

"Yes, sir. I’m listening."

“West of here, in a town called Hans, there’s a small wooden farmhouse sitting right between the military domain and the domestic district. On one side, you can hear every test bombing, gunshot, and the smoking shells hitting the dirt after every fire.”

Griffith paused, casting a dark look toward the officer. “Everyone who’s ever lived in that house went mad within months. I call it the house between insanity and reality.”

He leaned back in his chair, the weight of his words thickening the air. “But the man living there now has been there for four years. The noise, the insanity—it doesn’t faze him anymore. I guess he's seen and heard his fair share of violence. It’s the same for his daughter; she’s just like her dad.”

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"And what is this man's name, Commander?"

"His name... well, they call him 'The Gunner with the Iron Hand, code name: Iron Gun.' Others know him as 'The Black Gunner' because, when he shows up, everything goes black.”

Griffith’s gaze hardened, his tone growing darker. "He lives out there with his six-year-old daughter and a scrappy old cat. His wife left him two years after the kid was born, and he has no other family to speak of. Parents passed a long time ago."

The commander gave a dry smile. “You can’t miss him, though. In a crowd, he’s like a red balloon in a sea of blue. Wears this worn-out brown cowboy hat, a black leather jacket, loose blue jeans, and boots that look ready for a showdown. And do yourself a favor—don’t ask him why he dresses that way. He’ll just say, ‘Because it goes with the metal arm.’”

"Understood, sir."

"Good. When you get there, mind your manners, and tell him Commander Griffith said hi—and not to mess this one up. You’re dismissed, Officer."

"Yes, sir!"

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As she left his office, Vivian felt a chill. What was that last expression? she wondered, feeling as though the commander had just set her up for failure—and felt sorry about it.

Why me? she thought. I’m a doctor, not a lackey... that officer title is just the rank they gave me from my month in the bombing of Hail Hazel, and that was two decades ago.

"Excuse me, Officer Vivian."

"Huh? What is it?"

"Sorry to bother you, ma’am," the soldier stammered. "I was sent to find you. Happened to spot you as you were walking down the hall. I’m Private Mitchell. The commander assigned me as your driver for the next few days."

“My driver, huh?” Vivian muttered, looking him over. “Alright. We’ll leave at thirteen hundred hours. Don’t be late—it’s never good to keep a lady waiting.”

"Yes, ma’am! I’ll be waiting outside at thirteen hundred hours."

Maybe it won’t be so bad, she thought. At least I don’t have to drive myself there.

As she continued down the hall, Vivian couldn’t help but wonder, Just what kind of man are you... Mister Gunner?