As the finger prodded the dusty switch, the lights jumped to attention through the cool darkness. The shadows ran of screaming, silent panic in their trails. A single gloved digit rested in the stale air, poised over the second switch with the weight of a nation on its leather wrapped pad. The sighing vapors of breath stirred the cloak of dust and they danced the tarantella before resting again. The finger inched forth, and then retreated. Its owner sighed and shook his head. The solution was not that simple, at least not for the present situation…
The gloved man stepped away from the blasted circuits and haunting boards, his peach-fuzzed head the perfect foil of the gray dust of the pit. Blonde stubble had only just begun to erupt on his still-youthful features, the last stragglers of a drawn out puberty. His form was nicely filled out and his profile boyish, if a little gaunt. The face of the gloved man was known to many people, but only in passing. They often knew him as ‘that-odd-man’ or ‘that-creeper-guy’. These were not names he liked, but the people on the street did not know his name, so Thatcreeperguy he was.
Thatcreeperguy wrung his, his leather palms creaking, and started at the sudden break in silence. His sudden shift set up the dancing motes of dust and air once more, and he choked at their passing. Once the atmosphere had settled at last, Thatoddman set about the switch room, prodding and twisting the machines until they slept. Thatoddman crossed swiftly and hit the final switch. The entire silo groaned in protest as the behemoth generators ceased to pump its flashing life-blood, and Thatcreeperguy groaned with them. The Phoenix would fly some day. Someday, but not today…