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Mr. Gray was a professional. Beyond training and preparation he had solid experience, acquired through years of diligence, paying attention and not dying. He was "in the know". Because of this, he didn't trust the chances. The intel said that the BOAK - one of the many religion-oriented militia groups in the region - moved in just two nights ago and didn't set up a long range patrol routine. Mr. Gray ignored such intel as a matter of pride. If the intel is saying not to worry, worry. If the intel is saying you should worry, enclose a letter for your family and reserve a spot in a respectable graveyard. This is how Mr. Gray formulated his basic soldiering philosophy, and so far it served him exceedingly well. It was undeniably nihilistic, laced with unhealthy, unproductive and unpleasant outlooks on life. To answer this Mr. Gray would point out his age.

For a man seventy six years old, he still kicked and clawed quite well. In soldier years he was pushing his third century.

Night settled in, accompanied by the monotone howl of dry, west-bound winds. From the east they carried dust in generous waves, enveloping the ghastly town in a thick, shifting mist. Visibility was poor even with visual filtering on the visor; the wireless had a grumpy streak. Mr. Gray cursed his equipment - as was customary - but overall found comfort in the merciless weather. He was encased in a softsuit, wrapped in a tightfit blanket of artificial muscle, while his enemies were mostly meatmobile militiamen. Whatever he had to endure, they had to endure tenfold.

He sneaked his way into a five-story building on the outskirts of town, an unfinished, skeletal eurostack modified into ersatz housing by generations of squatters, and set his lobos in a concealed position a few dozen meters back. The building ricketed and whined under the wind, but that was par the course. Eurostacks, especially when unburdened with most of their walls, tend to stand strong for a long time.

---

When he heard what the commission was, barely two days ago, Mr. Gray sighed. When asked about it, he said he hated working for the americans.

"Aren't you American yourself, old man?"

Finnigan asked that question. A bright boy who didn't take chances, handsome if not for the blemishes of the profession and the eternally tired look in his eyes. He was cowardly, and thus a good fit for the modern battlefield. His defining trait was that he was all-natural. A fix otkaznik who believed that the reproductive right trumped eternal youth. Gray made the other choice forty years ago and wondered about it every day.

"Different kind. I'm from the Free States."

"Huh."