• His hand twitched gently around the rusted machete. He sighed, his relatively moist breath creating a lightshow with the alkali metals in the air. His other hand clutched his only other precious possession: his journal; where he kept logs of those he'd saved, and those he couldn't. The radiator pack on his back flapped its wings in vain, trying to keep his body tempurature from matching the 80 degree heat around him. Stiffling. Toxic. Strewn with a decade of radioactive materials and 4 centuries of mankinds worst. A dull green haze. He could feel it rotting his clothing. He could feel it rotting him. Why he still sterlized his blade in this world hostile to every known form of life, he couldn't say. Perhaps he just liked the sizzle of the hot blade on flesh. Perhaps he was a sadist. Perhaps it would slow the bleeding.He sighed heavilly again. More lightshows. He pulled back the flap and stepped into his operating tent; a clean haven in this filthy world gone mad, thin whisps of the haze traling out at the positive pressure did its job. When he was satisfied that it had dissipated, he sealed the outer door and stepped through the inner. Into a blazing white field hospital. He peeled off his mask, his hair pouring silver over his shoulders; bleached totally white by years of stress and errosion. His eyes fell over his only patient: A pretty young girl, hair like his, her life dependant on the iodine drip and the oxygen being forced into her bloodstream. He stepped towards her, sighing once more before his blade sizzled on her skin...