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Snow whipped across the gray plain, illuminated in mid-fall by the powerful floodlights that spilled from crags left and right. At the clearing's center, unburdened by the heavy snows that blanketed the surrounding rock, an angular block of stone jutted from the ground. It was the same gray-white as the snow and as alien to the black rock of its landscape. Atop it rested a thick slab of the same pale stone, bearing at its center the only ornamentation for miles: a chevron, two wings, and another chevron, in black glass.

A figure shrouded in a long cloak marred the smoothly curving edge of the lights. With strong, swift strides it crossed under that cold glare and stood before the stone. It drew a black glove from its hand, flinching not at the icy wind, and bent to touch the smooth obsidian and marble surface.

Strands of ghostly green light lashed out, binding skin to stone against the straining of an ancient reflex. The spasmodic tensing of muscles fought a losing battle against mind and machine as the figure quivered, palm bound to the stone.

This is cold and dark and your destiny.

"Fiat Justitia."

Be, Iupiter.

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