Hello and salutations to all our armed forces in the Confederacy! Our very special topic of tonight's film is directed towards those who think they have what it takes to be a part of the Terran Confederacy's Covert Ops branch.

But make no mistake, becoming a "Ghost," as the elite specialists are sometimes known as, is no picnic. Having a psyschic spark by no means guarantees you will become a specialist. It takes razor-sharp intellect, an intuitive mind, incredible stamina, and one solid week of intense training. So let us eye in on a group of fresh recruits at Fort Pixistix so you may get a better idea on what is expected of you, should you join up..

A stern, lantern-jawed sergeant stalked menacingly up and down a row of fresh-faced recruits, his light blue uniform as crisp and precise as his demeanor. Dark brown eyes that held the fury of molten lava glared fiercely into each whey face. A neatly trimmed black moustache completed the ensemble.

"Right!!" The sergeant bellowed as he continued to walk the line, his eyes drawing in everyone at once. "I am Career Sergeant Franks, but it's just Sergeant to you dirtbags!" Grinning maliciously, Franks stopped suddenly to glare into the eyes of one cadet.

"Ninety-five percent of you will not last long enough to join our elite corps, but the five percent of your class who do survive the training will find themselves the better for it! Now, moving on..." The grizzled sergeant's words trailed off abruptly as his hawk-like eyes darted towards a man at the end of the line who had his hand up.

"What the devil is it? Who is that?" Enraged, Franks marched crisply over to the recruit and stuck his mug in the young boy's face in a rather up-close and personal way. "What sort of excuse have you got for even daring to think you can interrupt?" The sergeant's face grew red, his hot breath and spittle felt against the man's face. Slowly, the recruit lowered his hand, his eyes widely averted from Franks' own.

"Uh, well, you see Sergeant, I have to make wee-wee." At the recruit's words, a few of the other cadets down the line began to snicker and giggle. Alert as ever, Franks turned and pointed at the guilty parties, his voice filled with anger.

"Right! Corporal Jenkins, pace these hooligans! Run them until they drop unconscious!" The snickering stopped and was soon replaced by the barking voice of the corporal as three groaning cadets fell out of rank and began to run.
His upper lip curling in apparent disgust, Franks turned back to the cadet and eyed him fiercely. "Have to make 'wee-wee,' eh? Need to go to the little boys' room? Perhaps you need to make a poopy as well? Well, do you need someone to hold your hand and wipe for you?"

Blinking, the cadet shook his head slightly. "No sergeant, I ah, just have to go."

The silence was deafening...

Nodding slightly, Franks edged away. "Right, go on ahead. I assume you know where the washroom is. Dismissed." The cadet made tracks. Looking back to the rest of the recruits, Franks scowled fiercely.

"And as for the rest of you scum, you filth, you vile putrescence, you effluvient flecks of doggy doo-doo, today we are going to march fifty miles! Leading you in this endeavor are myself, and my assistant, Instructor Slake." Franks gestured to an empty space next to him. The cadets looked properly puzzled.

"...And after we march, we will march some more! And then..." the sergeant's eyes narrowed.. "..We will break for lunch! And after lunch we will be doing calisthenics and macrame! Very well then! Instructor Slake, lead us off!"