As the rain poured down on the wheat fields in a torrential downpour, one lone armored figure paused midway through it, and looked back on his winding path through the field. Off in the distance, the glare of New Haven, the last remaining Sanctuary outpost of the West Coast, could be seen blazing high, the silhouettes of lightly built scout ships crossing fleetingly in front of the flames, circling the dying city like condors. In the fading light, the figure's icy blue eyes glinted in the darkness, scanned its surroundings, searching for an unseen threat. when the figure sensed that nobody was watching, he reached under his matte-black armor plates, and pulled out a small collection of dog tags, jingling in the breeze. as he read through the tags, a brief glimpse of the wracking grief lying within flashed across his face. there were too many names. Roberts, Skylark R. Lt. Keel, John A. Sgt. Baring, Elijah M. Lt. Cdr. Malaya, Amanda E- at this, the figure gripped the tags tightly as he broke down into silent shaking grief, silent aside from occasional gasping sobs. He had lost too many friends in the war. Each tag was a grim reminder of life-debts left unpayed. Now incapable of being redeemed. some were faded, from months and years of wear and weathering, while others were still fresh and shiny, from the fallen men and women who had died defending the city during the early months of the siege. As he got control over his emotions, the tears leaving pale streaks on his grime-coated face, he took one last look at the burning citadel that had once been his home, half-hoping to see survivors in the distance, and turned back into the gathering darkness and gloom. he had to make his way to the safe-house. within moments, he had disappeared into the fields, leaving no sign that he had been there. while the citadel had fallen, the war was far from over.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
When the morning finally came, the early morning mist washed over the ruins of Guardian Square, creating an excellent smoke-screen for the sole survivor of New Haven, as he walked through the silent, deserted alleyways and streets. his features could be seen more clearly in the early morning light. taking his helmet off as he came to a stop in the center of the square, his icy blue eyes glanced around him, taking everything in. his rust-red goatee was in distinctive contrast with his long, pale face. his short-cut red hair hung limp with sweat. on his right shoulder plate, his silver Captain's bars clung desperately to the matte-black plate, the paint peeling and chipped from many years of weathering. right between his shoulder plates, long since rusted over with age, a small shattered dent, his parting souvenir from a syndic sniper. The statues of noble guardians of the ages long since past gazed down on him admonishingly, dilapidated, almost blaming him for the destruction around him. he gazed around the square, looking at the names at the feet of the statues, until he found the one he was looking for: MACDUFF. he slowly stepped closer, and looked up at Macduff reverently, subconsciously ripping off a half-hearted salute. Macduff gazed down on him, smiling vaguely, mysteriously, his long hair and neatly trimmed beard draping over his unblemished ceremonial chest-plate. the regimental markings had long since faded from the statue's shoulder plates, but the clan insignia engraved under his name remained, a defiant reminder standing against time: a simple wolfs-head silouhette. Lone Wolf Company. "Hi dad" he murmured, as he stepped closer to the base of the statue, slipping his combat knife from its sheath on his belt. he knew what he had to do. he somberly inserted the glade into the wolf-head's mouth, turned the hilt clock-wise, listening carefully to the clicking emmiting from the base as it turned, twisted it counter-clockwise twice, then stood back, waiting patiently. Time itself seemed to stand still as the clicks continued intermittently, then stopped completely. the fog wafted around his feet, as he stood waiting, expectantly, when with a soft hiss, a panel unsealed itself from the base of the statue, and silently slid into some hidden recess in the base, while a rack of rifles and ammunition clips slid into position, taking its place. a small light blinked on the rack a few seconds, then with a soft click, one of the rifles unlocked from the rack. without warning, a pleasantly cynical voice shattered the silence. "Well, well well... Captain William Macduff, the prodigal son, returned from the grave. again."
