by VJMillerSr
What happens when the galaxy’s top Bounty Hunter goes searching, on a desert moon, for the universe’s foremost Assassin? God help anyone who happens to get in their way.
HEAT! It clung to his flesh like molten caramel, scorched his parched throat, blasted his nostrils like a blast-furnace.
Fred Sinclair, AKA, Iceman, exhausted, dehydrated, on the verge of total collapse, operating on his insanely indomitable will alone; forced his blistering boot clad feet to continue through the burning sands of the desert moon of Renquiste III. Halting on teetering legs ready to buckle, he painfully urges his helmet off and gazes into the two suns of the binary system that never set. Each step drags a toe deep into the amber hued sand leaving two distinct furrows in his wake.
His canteen, empty for several hours, drags by its strap from his fingertip. Slipping free from his feeble grasp it is joined by the discarded helmet.
Disoriented, delirious, his tank on empty; his sight erupts in a kaleidoscope of vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. Knees thump the surface first followed closely by the left side of his face. The Grim Reaper hones his scythe for the inevitable.
Footsteps crunching the inferno of sand, firmly approach the fallen form. Twin deep black shadows eclipse the burning rays slamming down on Iceman’s flushed, sweat-drenched features…Maniacal haughty deep laughter echoes off nearby cliffs.
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