One could not be sure whether it was due to the frigid wind whistling through the air, or the preternatural sense of foreboding that lingered heavily around the Williamsburg Bridge, but the giant metallic structure that stretched over New York's East River was unusually deserted on this late December afternoon. It was just before the time when the sky would begin to darken with winter's lengthy nights; there were but a few souls who were intrepid enough to brave the chill and explore the city, to see what adventures could befall them as dusk began to fall.

One person in particular would be likely to catch a passerby's eye as she walked steadily across the bridge; a young looking girl, seeming to be late in her teenage years at the very most, but with steel-grey eyes that hinted that she was either far older, or had seen far too much within her limited lifespan. Long, dark hair fell in slight waves around her face, contrasting starkly with her fair, cool skin. And if one were to look closely, focusing on the area of her throat just above her collarbone, they would be able to see a silvery line of scar tissue stretching across her delicate-looking neck.

Her figure was petite, barely reaching five foot tall, and slender in stature. Her clothing, whilst not scant by any stretch of the imagination, was not particularly bulky nor suited for winter. In fact, beyond a long-sleeved (but lightweight in appearance) top, combat trousers, and heavy black motorcycle boots, she wore no other layers to shield her from the seasonal weather. And yet, the young woman was seemingly unconcerned with the plummeting temperatures, striding purposefully along without so much as a shiver as the air around her seemed to pulsate with invisible heat.

As she walked, her mind methodically reviewed the information she had already been given, scant as it was. Interpol had a target, most details unknown, but codenamed the Fifth Apocalypse. Who this person was, or why he was a target... these were details that either her department didn't know, or just didn't see fit to tell her. It was yet another one of those "you'll know them when you see them, now go!" type of missions. She sighed deeply - Interpol were not making sense lately. They wouldn't even allow her partner to accompany her on the trip, claiming he was urgently needed on a job elsewhere. Rakhana has every faith in her ability to get the job done, but she always felt better when she had Jack Miles watching her back. 

Moving without pause, at a steady but measured pace, it was only a matter of time before the young woman reached the end of the walkway on the bridge. Turning to face the bridge before pausing for a moment, she withdrew a gun (a modified, sawn-off M1 Garand) from a holster strapped to her right leg - her left sported the same holster with an identical gun, but this one she kept sheathed for now. Extending her right arm to hold the gun straight in front of her, she sent some wordless, motionless commands through her neural system to the injection system embedded in her lower spine. Though these commands produced no outwardly visible changes, she felt a difference almost immediately; time seemed to slow before her eyes as her adrenaline spiked to inhuman levels from the first command, the activation of her controlled adrenaline rush. The second command caused her skin to produce a microscopic layer of transparent, heat-reactive superfluid which provided a layer of armour all over her body, without restricting her movement or altering the skin beneath at all.

And, with her weapon drawn, her attention focused, and her defenses up, Rakhana Vakarian was ready for the next fight. All the young Interpol agent had to do now was to wait for the Fifth Apocalypse to arrive.