Heath Who

A figure crept along the rooftops, clanking together is a cobbled suit of armor. Typically, one would be wary of such a racket, if the power plants weren’t filling the air with a racket as thick as the ozone it was producing. The figure checked his sniper helmet to make sure that, yes, he still had a steady supply of oxygen pumping into his suit.

He wiped a hand across his visor in an attempt to clean it. He could see the tracks his fingers left. He hadn’t realized it would be this polluted down near the power plants. 

Looking over the side of the rooftop, he saw the few snipers salute each other before breaking off to continue patrolling. Good, they were continuing even despite the implement weather.

He jumped down as lightning flashed across the sky. He didn’t have long. He slammed a crowbar onto one of the Snipers as he fell, vaulting across to slash at the other’s exposed wiring as the thunder boomed. Two down. Hopefully no more to go.

He had no idea how long he had. He simply rushed into the outpost, and grabbed as many power cells as possible. He had maybe five minutes. 

He ran outside, the clouds getting thicker. Not good, not good. He ran, not caring if they heard him. If the rain got them, they’d all be dead. Or as good as. He prayed the grappling hook would work as he launched it at the roof. It held and jerked him up abruptly. He landed hard, some of the cells spilling out from his bag. Another flash of lightning and boom of thunder.