The snow hung in the air like a dense fog. Through the haze a lone figure emerged, materializing like a ghost. He trudged through the deep snow, his movements practiced and fluid. His body was encased in a cocoon of ceramic-based armor, once white, but now faded. A long grey duster sat on top, flapping in the wind that disturbed the fine top layer of snow. The man's head was hidden under a symmetrical helmet, a pair of ribbed pipes arching from the sides of the gas-mask canister round to the back. It was spray-painted white, giving the figure a robotic image. Even his hands were hidden, with gloves that were reinforced with metallic plates.
Two men stood in front of a large wooden gate. A wall of metal and wood stretched outward on either side. They were dressed in simple clothes and basic armor, layered against the cold, with a torn sheet acting as a scarf that wrapped around their necks and faces.
"Goddamn hate gate-duty," the taller of the two guards said.
"We all gotta do it," the second replied with a shrug.
"Yeah well, I'd rather be in the bar."
"You and me both. Not long till shift change, though. Just be glad we aint pulling night duty."
"I had that last week. Thought my toes were going to fall off."
"Wear two pairs of socks. I'm sick of your complaining." The shorter man turned away, his eyes staring at the town's wall.
A moment later, his colleague slapped him on the arm.
"Goddamnit, what now?"
The taller man said nothing. He nervously nodded toward the lone man as he approached.
"It can't be," the short man mumbled from behind the face-wrap.
"Sweet Jesus, it is."
"What do you think he wants."
The taller guard shook his head. He reached up with a gloved hand and pulled the scarf down, grimacing against the cold.
"Hold up, there!" he ordered with as much authority as he could manage.
The lone man stopped only when he was a few feet from the guards.
"What's your business here?" the tall guard asked.
The man didn't answer. Instead he just stood there. Through the mask, the guards couldn't see if he was staring, but they could feel he was. The two guards shared a brief look, each one wishing for the other to do something.
"No tourists," the shorter guard finally said, allowing his arm to fall away from his body slightly. The lone man's head turned a fraction as he sized the guards up. On the taller guard's back was a four-foot long thermic lance. The shorter guard was armed with an assault rifle. A submachinegun hung on each guard's hip.
The lone man showed no reaction to the guards being armed. He remained motionless. The only sound was the howling of the wind, and that stopped, as though the world was holding its breath.
Again the guards exchanged glances, but this time the visitor did move. He stepped forward, quickly, his left hand flying out from inside his coat with a Samurai Sword in the gloved fist. The blade arced wide to one side. The guards' eyes went wide.
The lone man thrust the blade forward, toward the shorter guard. It piercing through the leather-based armor with a wet pop and plunged into the guard's chest cavity. The taller guard flinched at seeing the death of his partner. He pulled the bulky Thermic Lance from his back and motioned it forward.
The lone man saw the movement and had expected it. With the shorter guard impaled on his sword, he brought a silenced pistol up with his right hand. He fired a single shot, hitting the guard in the forehead. With a soft puff, the tall man fell to the snowy ground.
The quiet was ended by the relieved sigh of the wind as the lone man holstered his weapons. He crouched and patted the guards down, taking a handful of bottle caps and ammunition from each and placing them in his own pocket. He took a key from one of the bodies and turned to enter the walled town that hid behind the gates.
He paused and turned back, staring at the bodies, his mechanical breathing the only sound he made. He crouched and picked up the assault rifle. He examined it for a second before slinging it aside. Next, he weighed the Thermic Lance in his hands and examined that too. He spun it round in his hand, first in a circle, then a figure-of-eight before swiping it diagonally down and stabbing it outward. With a pleased nod, he picked up the guard's harness and slipped it over his shoulder. He slung the long lance into its holster, and walked between the bodies toward the gate.
He knew the layout well enough. He closed the gate behind him and walked down the gentle slope. At the foot of the slope a metal railing stood on the cliff edge. Ten feet below, small, boxy buildings sat, cramped together. Balconies bridged the rooftops, and served more buildings built onto the side of a steep hill. He looked around, seeing a few people walking about. He then looked both ways along the walkway on which he stood.
He followed the walkway until it turned, a set of metal stairs leading into the snowy coulee. He descended the steps and paused halfway. He looked around and, with no eyes on him, vaulted over the hand rail.
The snow made for a soft and quiet landing. He stood beside the stairs and a small shack and quickly darted behind the wooden building.
From the other side of the buildings came the relaxed chatter of two different voices as the wind whistled through the town. The man skirted the town, staying close to the cliff, and hidden by the ramshackle buildings that, despite their appearance, were sturdy enough to survive the harsh weather. The snow was working in his favor but, although it covered his footprints, there was still the chance of them being seen. Footprints seen on the walkways would go unnoticed, but he would not. Footprints leading behind the buildings might arouse suspicion, but it kept him out of sight.
His objective stood before him after several more minutes of skulking. He watched the unmarked building, which stood out from the others in the sense that it was of stone masonry.
He checked the walkway for patrols and, seeing none, stepped from the shadow and moved toward the door.
The door creaked open and he stepped inside, his gun drawn. Two men sat, a pack of dirty playing cards sprawled across an old table between them with more in their hands. A cigarette fell from one of the men's mouths, while the other one dropped his playing cards.
The lone man didn't give them time for the surprise to wear off. Without a word, he pointed the men toward the jail cells, which stood at the back of the building. The two men stood, intimidated by the metal man and his mechanical breathing. Without a word of protest, and with much fear, they obeyed.
After stripping the men of their guns, and pointing them at the metal bars, he watched them unlock the cell door. He waved them inside with his gun. The lone man, still nonspeaking, pointed at the only prisoner and crooked his finger. She was petite and had been sitting with a defeated posture. She looked up, her face and hair darkened by dirt. Her clothes were little more than rags, which were far too big for her tiny frame.
The girl stood on shaky legs and exited the cell. The lone man tied the two men's hands together and gagged them. He then locked the cell door and pocketed the key.
He turned to see that the girl had retrieved her possessions and dressed in her own clothes. The man opened the door a crack and looked out.
Once the girl was ready, they exited the building and disappeared into the white mist.
Theme tune: Youtube: /watch?v=ujRhNAlfuZo