The hideous shrieks of the mutating citizens rang out across the area, causing people to either flee in terror, or stand frozen to the spot. The pathogen, once helpful microbe, had shown its true colours as a hideous, mutating virus. It wormed its way into a human host, and changed them from the inside. The hospitals could not cure them as they turned into pollutant beasts, and decimated what was in their path. The less experienced military artists barely sowed them down, as their failed attempts at fight and flight caught up with them, costing them their lives either immediately or due to their injuries. Calling for help was futile – nobody would reach them. They couldn’t risk getting onto the roaming buses, by order, and besides – pretty much everyone was dead, dying, mutating or not accepting people into their regios. A last stand was the only way to stop it, or at least halt it until a cure was devised by the scientists. For now, though, in this particular area, one lone sniper made his way onto a roof, grumbling about how much of a pain it was to do this. His limp slowed him down only minimally, his prosthetic leg no more a hindrance than the weight of his rifle. He had chosen an ore that would keep the kei flow and physical power of the rifle balanced – he needed precision and mid-range power for urban areas, and he had certainly gotten it. “You’d better hold onto your heads, mates.” His single, muttered line was the only thing he said as he got to work, blasting his shots at anything in his sights. Yes, he missed, and he did not always hit the head. But he was careful – even if he masked his kei, they would sniff him out, and hunt him down. It was dangerous to be alone, but somebody had to cover the medical team’s escape, and he was the least incapacitated. Even considering the leg.