The smell of food permeated the air. The sense of frustration twisted over on itself and became one of hunger. His eyes unfocused as he conjured to his mind an image of a woman – his mother – cooking at their primitive stove. Alas, as his concentration wavered, his sister stole another block from his pile.

A scream rose from his chest and tore from his lips, and he launched his small body at her. He struggled in vain to reach the block, held high above his head, as he clawed at her, the incredible rage driving his attack.

"Dmitri!" His mother cried – so that was his name? – and two hands around his middle lifted him from the girl. Although he writhed in her arms, she was many times his size, and much stronger. "That is not how you treat your sister!"

At that moment, though, the sound of a door opening caused his head to turn. In walked a man – his father – who had too many sores on his hands and lines on his face for someone his age. For a moment, Dmitri was sad.

The breath was coming hard in his chest, and a smile was etched sharply into his face. He crouched, his eyes following the older boys as they ran, the ball darting between them as they fought over it. It was coming towards him, and he braced himself for their encounter. With each foot, each inch that it drew nearer, his heart beat faster, until it was within range.

His feet pounded he ground as he drew near, arms flailing, legs reaching, eager to join the fray. One boy on the other team broke lose, and he charged him, concentrating all the energy in his small body into one sprint, one lunge, one tackle, as he attached himself to the older boy's legs.

The other cried out in outrage, and attempted to pry Dmitri from him, but he held fast. "Hey! Git offa me you stupid kid!" His large hand was pushing against Dmitri's head, pulling at his arms, but he would not let go.

Then, a sharp voice. "Aleksei! Lev! Sergei! Dmitri! Come home!" His mother.

Immediately, Dmitri released his hold and ran back towards home, trailing behind the older, taller boys who were his brothers.

They arrived to find his mother, hanging limp against the doorframe, her entire posture portraying defeat. She looked up at them as they arrived.

"Where's dad?" he heard himself say.

The look on her face was something he had never seen before. "There...there's been an accident."

There was a keen emptiness in his stomach. He felt it acutely. It wormed its way up his esophagus and into his mouth, so that he could taste the strong flavor of his fruit. It then seeped up into his mind, and his gaze focused upon the next tomato.

His job was to harvest them, not eat them. The absence of food in his stomach was becoming unbearable, though. Without moving his head, he let his gaze travel the greenhouse, searching for the black shape of a security camera. He found none. Slowly, subtly, he turned his head to one side, and then to the other. No cameras. Slowly, he reached out, and grasped another tomato.

Instead of placing it in the bucket, he carefully brought it to his mouth. Not bothering to clean it, he bit down into the juicy flesh, letting its fluids dribble down his chin. Without thinking, he wiped his arm across his lips.

With a lurch, he realized he had revealed the tomato to any camera which might have been behind him. With dread lacing his veins, he turned, one little bit at a time, until he was staring directly into the lens of a camera.

Dread turned to terror, which exploded within him.

The camera broke.

"Dmitri! Get me another beer, won't ya?" The man in the chair grunted.

He looked up from where he sat on the floor, to stare at his father. He had grown fat, and the stumps where his legs had been had a habit of drawing the eye. Dmitri stared at them now. They looked helpless.

"Ey, boy, you stupid or something? What did I say?"

He ignored him. A discomfort clenched at his abdomen, as visions of his father's tirades flashed before his mind's eye. Physically harmless as the amputee may have been, his words still struck the same blows that fists did. He didn't want to have to put up with them.

"Hey! Don't ignore me, boy. Who puts food on your table?"

In a low, meek voice, Dmitri replied. "Aleksei, Lev, Sergei, Nadya, mother, and I."

Clearly, this was not the answer the man wanted to hear. He flew into a rage, his voice loud and insulting. Dmitri flinched, recoiled, and drew into himself, although tears still formed in the corners of his eyes. He could feel them there, making his eyelashes damp. He clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes, so that he would not have to see the broken man. But he could still hear him. He cried out. "NO NO NO NO NO!"

Silence.

He opened his eyes. The holoscreen flickered, contorted, then went out.

Dmitri ran.

It took him a moment to remember why he was running, until the images of the previous dream filled his mind. Then he ran harder.

There were no thoughts that justified why he stopped outside of the Internet kiosk. He stood there, breathing heavily, in, out, in, out again, his feet planted firmly on the foyer. His arm – such an alien seeming contraption – pushed against the door, making it open. He slipped inside.

A few people were hooked up to Internet apparatuses, the headgear and complicated equipment deceiving all of their senses. He ignored them, but instead, found his way to an unoccupied apparatus. He sat down and picked up the controller, held the black, smooth object in his hand, and stared at it. Then he picked up the headset and pulled it over his eyes.

Blackness consumed him. Then, a blue light. A cool, female voice asked him for his bank number, to pay for the session. He had no money. She asked again. But by then, he was gone.

He left his body in that chair, left the physical restraints of a material form, and morphed into data. Without thinking he was surrounded by sensation that was not sensation, engulfed by light that was not light, suffocated by reality that was by no means real. He had no direction, but yet he was following a path through this nothingness, this everything, and then he found it.

In an instant, he was sitting in his chair again, and the blue screen was gone. He had gained access to the Internet.

He pulled the headset and hastily recoiled, almost falling as he backed out of his chair. All around him, apparatuses fizzed and buzzed, and kiosk patrons cried out, their voices surprised and enraged.

Dmitri left immediately.

His destination was clear. A store for provisions, its lights dimmed in the odd hours. It was unprotected, it stood alone, without any armaments, any traps. It was a fortress, but it had a different kind of security cameras, and a different kind of treasure.

He slunk up to the door. He held nothing in his hands, but their emptiness did not bother him. He faced the door, his eyes concentrating on the digital lock. He did not move his hands, did not move his body, but he went inside the lock.

The inside of the database did not provide him with any puzzle. He navigated the information with practiced ease, and quickly found what he was looking for. His task completed, he withdrew from the machine.

The door opened. He entered.

Fluorescent lights flickered on, security cameras focused on him. He landed his gaze upon each one, extended himself, until he smothered it, suffocated it, blinded it. The lights went out, and he was freed to complete his task.

With haste, he went after the essentials. He stuffed meat, bread, milk, and even a few apples for his sister into his open bag. Then he slung it over his back, and departed the store, taking a bite into a tomato as he did so. Its juices never reached the floor, and as he exited the store, he left no evidence of his visit.

The door closed and locked behind him, and he slipped back away into the night.

We once again offer our dearest appreciation for your services. Thanks to you, we have been able to obtain important information that may help us in achieving our goal. We may have located one of the top officials of the Moscow bank, all thanks to your assistance! Of course, we will award you for your services, and you will find a generous sum wired to your account, and in our gratitude, we have added a tip that we think you will be pleased with. It was, as always, a pleasure working with you.

He turned his attention to one of his many other screens -- an unusual set up, but one he had made himself -- and focused upon a video clip. He frowned slightly, trying to make out what was happening.

A hand firmly gripped his shoulder, and spun his chair around.

"Dmitri Ilyavich Laukhov, alias 'The Ghost', you are under arrest."

A sickness overtook him as he gazed up at the two large police officers. Oh no.

"For theft, vandalism, treason, and the distribution of private information," he added, a malicious smirk on his face.

Even though he struggled, he was powerless. He was small, wiry. They were big, burly. They dragged him from his cave with ease.

In fact, he couldn't bring himself to care about much anything anymore. He had been caught. There was no getting out of there. With his build...his talents did not lie in fighting. His talents...even he didn't know what they were.

He ignored the footsteps at first, but as they drew nearer, he noticed a peculiar quality to them. He had come to identify the footsteps of the warden as scuffed but commanding. These, however, had an official click to them. Unable to help his curiosity, he raised his gaze.

Four men were approaching. The warden, followed by three men in expensive suites. They were crisp, well trimmed, and definitely not proletariat. Dmitri stared.

He didn't know how he knew they were coming for him, but when they opened his door, he felt no surprise. When they filed in, he made no move to approach them. He simply stared at them.

The taller one stepped forward, then spoke. "Laukhov, Dmitri...or should I call you by your alias, Ghost? Regardless, you are under arrest for serious crimes and will remain in jail the rest of your life."

Dmitri bristled, but the man continued.

"I am curious, though. It says that you were able to break into stores without leaving any trace of force or typical hack codes. You were also able to access top secret information on the Internet, without the use of any recognizable code. We hired experts to study your crimes, and we are all quite curious: how did you do it?"

Dmitri's mouth remained shut.

The man stared, his face blank, and his eyes dark. "I have been led to believe...that you can do it with your mind. So Dmitri. Can you?"

Every nerve in his body screamed with shock, with rage. But every particle of sense told him to control it, to calm himself, to resist the urge. He could not. His emotions burst from him, into the air, into the room around him, and at the men with their suites and their expensive gadgets.

There must have been an Internet jack in the back of the man's head, because it buzzed slightly, and he flinched. Another man took out his cell phone, looked at it, shook it a bit, then slipped it back into the pocket.

The first man smiled a thin-lipped smile. "Excellent. Thank you for your hard work," he turned to the warden, "we'll take him from here."

Dmitri tried to protest, but once more, it was futile.