The wind howls through the open slots and holes between containers on a nearby cargo truck.  Bits of leaves and debris float in spirals into the open hangers within an abandoned construction yard.  The cranes rusted metal wires creak and moan, while flats of metal roofing rattle against chain fences.  It’s a cloudy night, but the moon still shows through, reflecting off the glass dome over head and tracing a tall structure at its center.  Shadows dance along the walls of the empty buildings, the sound of shuffling feet echoing off the metal, creating an eerie atmosphere.  Five men in ragged cloths rush through the yard, two hefting large, black, square objects with straining grunts of effort.  Weaving between containers and hangers, the man at the front stops at every  corner, peers out slowly, checking each side, and motions for the others to follow as he takes off in to a sprint.  Deeper and deeper they go, further into the labyrinth of rusted metal.  They turn a corner, entering an area of containers placed into a circular shape, four containers high.  The lead motions for the others to stop.  Taking a moment, he moves over to a nearby container, and taps it once with his knuckle, causing a metallic echo.  He taps the container again, then twice, twice again, and finally once.  The echo bounces off the walls of metal, reverberating like a tuning fork.  The air is still with silence, and not one of the five move.  A metallic creak breaks the silence as one of the container walls slides open, followed by several others.  Each container held several men, many clad in body armor formed out of sheet metal.  All but one were armed with weapons; archaic looking pipes, crow bars, pistols, and automatic rifles.  The weaponless man walked slowly into the center of the circle.  The leader of the five motioned for the other four to stay put as he did the same.  The two met at the center, and stood each other down, not saying a word.

        The man, tall, stocky, and clad in metal spoke first, “You have the goods, Stain?” His voice was rough and raspy, like an old record player through a busted speaker.

        Stain, a baby faced kid barely into his twenties answered, with a boyish tone, “Two plasmas, like we said.  You got my meds?”

        “Hold it, we gotta make sure they aint broken and shit.”

        “I’m good for it, you know this, Mak.  When have I ever fucked you over, huh?”

        “I know you’re good, but I don’t trust your boys.  If they busted anything, this deal is done and I get a body, ya hear me?”

        Stain nodded in reassurance.  He turned slightly and motioned for the two caring the plasma televisions.  They slowly moved forward, their feet shuffling in the dirt, eyes darting everywhere, seeing no way out but a sharp blow or a quick shot to the head, if the exchange went bad.

        They reached the center, and Mak moved in quickly to carefully inspect his merchandise.  Drug dealers in the domes had to be sure that what they got was worth what they were giving, especially with antiques like plasma t.v’s that had salvageable parts.

        Mak backs off, giving a nod of satisfaction, quickly followed by a wave to the side.  A black bag flies through the air, being thrown by one of the men in the containers.  Mak grabs it, opens in and carefully pours out three glass tubes filled with a florescent green liquid.

        “Here you go, best quality we’ve got.  You and your friends really use this stuff up.  I’m surprised you can keep up with my prices.”

        Stain, his baby face turning sour, spoke up, “Hold it Mak, we said four, not three.  Where’s my last vial?”

        Mak retorted, annoyed at the boy’s demand. “Listen, you punk, this is all I’ve got with the DAF breathing down my neck and busting my labs.  They keep taking my shit and killing the cooks.  This deal is going down now with what we got, or you aint getting jack.  I got other shit to worry about.”  Mak’s tone lowered as he continued, “So, what do ya say? Take what you get, or get the fuck outta here. Your call.”

        Stain growled in his throat, but hesitantly nodded, and motioned for the two beside him to put the t.v.s down.  Mak put the vials back into the bag and tied it closed, then threw it towards Stain.  Two men jogged out from one of the containers, quickly scooped up the t.vs and retreated back to their holes.

        Mak spoke up again, a twinge of cheer in his gravelly voice, “Pleasure doing business with ya, Stain.”

        Just as Stain turned around and headed back, a dealer on one of the highest containers shouted, “Mak! We got fliers! They’re moving in fast! We gotta-“ Before the spotter could finish, his head tilted to the side as dark, chunky matter splattered outward.

        Mak and Stain both turned simultaneously to look at the downed spotter, then their eyes fell back on each other.  The sound of safeties clicking off on several of the guns resounded off the metal walls.  Mak reached quickly behind him, and pulled out a long barreled revolver and points it at Stain, followed by every other gun.  The other four that followed Stain immediately fell to the ground and covered their heads.

        In a rage, Mak yelled out, “The fuck is this Stain! Did they follow ya here?”

        Stain yelled back, “No! We stayed low! I don’t know how they found this place!”

        Mak yells out again, “Bullshit Stain! Ya led them here.  I’m not gonna die here, but I’m gonna have ya head for fucking me over!”

        Mak pulls back the hammer, and takes aim. Stain turns on his heels, grabs the two men beside him by their collars, pulls them with him, and takes off.  They quickly rise to their feet, and follow after him.  The other two are already turning to flee.

        Mak begins to pull the trigger, but one side of the container walls explodes into a mass of twisted, melted metal and shrapnel, blowing him off his feet. The screams of men being caught in the blast resound and fade away, and are replaced with the sound of spinning rotors blades as multiple hover platforms glide overhead.  Each platform is equipped with a person clad in black and yellow suit with matching shoulder and chest guards.  The dealers inside the remaining containers open fire.  Several initial soldiers are hit, and plummet to the ground, but they are replaced by more coming over the walls.  They return fire, their mounted cannons underneath their feet shooting off with heavy thuds and sprays of fire.  Many dealers are blasted into meaty pulps, while others take cover within the containers, only to have a hole punched through the thin metal wall, and themselves.  

Mak, still on the ground, tries to regroup, though a heavy ringing in his ears makes it difficult.  He looks up to see the last of Stains group pass a corner of a container.  He curses out as he turns on his back and fires at the first platform he sees.  He hits his mark as the top of an overhead soldiers helmet blows out with pink chunks of matter. He continues to empty his revolver at moving targets, missing every other shot.  His barrel empty, he begins to reload, when he notices someone walking through the now open hole of containers.  A single man, shrouded in a hood and covered in a robe decorated in elaborate runic symbols, slowly moves through the debris.

        Mak’s face turns to shock, fear turning his blood cold.  He freezes mid reload, and drops several of his bullets.  The shrouded man, ignoring the carnage around him, continues to walk, almost gliding along the ground, till he is standing over Mak, his arms behind his back.  The ringing in Mak’s ears has stopped, but he can’t hear anything.  There is a deep silence in the air; the once constant sound of clattering platforms slowly dissipates.  Mak quickly glances around and sees that he is surrounded by soldiers, guns aimed at him on all sides.  Behind them are the remains of his men, a devastating scene of body parts and pools of blood, making his stomach drop.  He looks up to the shrouded man in front of him, and sees a silver glint.  A metal eye, of pure silver, stares back at him.

        Mak opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes. He tries again, but only manages a small grunt.  Fear has paralyzed him to the point of being mute.  He manages a hard swallow, his mouth dry, and tries again to speak. “W-why are you here?  How did you-“

        The shrouded man interrupts, “It is of no concern of yours.  We merely seek the group that you were conversing with.  In which direction did they go?”

        Stunned, Mak stutters, “T-t-they went that way, out towards the spire.”

        “Thank you for your cooperation.”  The man then turns toward the direction Mak pointed, and begins to walk.

        Mak, still sitting, speaks again, “Y-you’re letting me go?  I’m free?”

        The man stops, turns slightly, and answers, “Yes, you are free to go.  Free to go from your life that is.”  The man extends his right arm towards Mak, his fist closed only for a small hole between his thumb and index finger, where a flash of black metal extends outward.

        Mak utters out a small, intangible grunt of question, as his vision tilts to the side, his head rolling off his shoulders and onto the ground.   A wide, pointed blade sits flat on the spot where his head used to be. As Mak’s body falls limp to the ground beside his head, the blade folds into itself, then retracts back to the man’s hand, which slides back behind him.

        One of the soldiers shifts toward him, kneels to the ground, his fists on the ground and his head down.  He speaks, his voice muffled slightly by the helmet.  “Sir, what are your commands.”

        The man looks back to the spire.  “Send five men to search for the Gaian conspiritors, and eliminate them.  Then scan them to see if they can be repurposed.  We need new test subjects.   Our Lord is becoming impatient, and needs new puppets.”

        The soldier calls out, “Yes, Commander.” He stands up and looks around, pointing at five random men, “You five, search, eliminate, and repurpose.  Find those five-“

        A single gunshot goes off as the ordering soldier’s visor cracks, and the back of his helmet pops open with metal, bone, and blood.  His body falls to the ground with a thud.  The other soldiers veer around to find the source of the gun shot, only to see a single dealer, a hand over his midsection, where a hole is freely spilling blood onto the ground, and a pistol in the other.  Gasping for breath he shuffles slowly towards his attackers. The gun in his hand shakes profusely, pointing it at the surrounding men as he makes his way through the soldiers, carefully focusing the weapon on the shrouded man.  The soldiers raise their firearms in unison, surrounding the injured man, only to be halted when the man slightly raises his hand.

        Softly, he speaks, “Hold men.  You five, you have your orders, now follow them.  The rest of you, return to headquarters.  I shall handle this one.  He is promising.”

        The soldiers give a grunt of acceptance, and begin to scatter to their platforms.  The shrouded man then walks over to the wounded dealer, the surrounding platforms creating clouds of dust as they disperse, until the gun is held against his head.  Again softly, he speaks to the dealer, “Well, what are you waiting for? You have your target, eliminate them.”

        As he says this, a click goes off, but no gunshot.  The gun is empty, but the dealer pulls the trigger again.  Another click, and no gunshot, again and again.

        The man rejoices, “Excellent.  On the verge of death, but you still cling to your desire to kill me.  Not out of duty, but out of spirit, and drive.  You will most definitely be made useful.” The man then reaches up, placing his hand on the dealers head, and the sound of unsheathing metal echos in the now empty construction yard.