Burning S.N.O.W.

What had called to me so greatly through that strange poster emerged from beneath the damp morning snow and grey cloud as I trudged through rows of illuminated storefronts and gossiping customers. A rather large, modern looking bookstore, its honey-coloured lighting pouring and reflecting on the wet pavement ahead of me. 
By a stroke of immense fortuity, this greatly appealing storefront was my designated location, written messily on that torn-off notepad page that had now served its purpose, crumpled and placed in my back pocket.
A tiny bell chimed as I entered into the flood of warmth and light. Inside, large beams of fake but aesthetically appealing wood demarcated the immediately before me from the section to my right, lined with row upon row of neatly placed, and expertly placed, hardcovers and paperbacks. Vibrant, colourful artbooks were placed at the centre of attention, while just to the side large promotional posters had the shining, gaudy smile of idols and celebrities, with a smattering of manga characters, all with a range of different, but equally flamboyant expressions and poses. It certainly caught my attention. Ahead of me, to my left, and the source of the sweet fragrance that had assaulted me at first but now enchanted me, was a brightly lit cafe, with table after table of chattering customers, probably seeking the same kind of shelter I was. 
This crossing of two worlds made for a pleasing atmosphere.
Most people who read and enjoy books probably eat and enjoy pastries and cakes, drink and obsess over coffee and tea.
It was a shrewd business move, and the sagaciousness of the bookstore-area's layout made me think that the owner was quite good at what they did.
It might show my biases, or prejudices, but a wise, neatly cropped, middle-aged man came to mind. He probably had a pair of rectangular, smart-looking glasses, and maybe even an expensive, ostentatious-looking pen perpetually in his breast pocket. 
Making my way to the front counter, I grinned at my own stupid imagination.
Somehow, the only shortly before, intensely powerful enchantment I had felt towards the strange, many headed woman on that poster seemed trivial, misguided - even childish and embarrassing. 
As usual, the morning dreariness and depression, the feeling that I was a slave to things other than myself, to myself, and not knowing the difference between the two, was beginning to thaw. I suppose the warm, welcoming interior of this place had some part in that, but it was, as it usually is, the due course of the day.
I suppose that's why we sometimes call each other 'morning people' or whatever.
At least, it's good to know that I'm not the only one that feels like they're slipping on thin ice every morning; all these people gossiping away under the comfort of the heated, illuminated cafe probably felt the same, and were drawn here.
The cold weather is really seeping into my metaphors, huh?
I pulled my parka closer to my chest unconsciously, and caught the eye of the woman at the counter.
Her hair, cropped in fluid bangs that seemed to express almost as much as her twinkling, shy features, swayed alongside her head as she turned to face me.
In complete honesty, immediately, I found her beautiful in some kind of niche way, and was as enchanted by her as I had been by the many headed woman. To her sides, two long knots of hair swayed by her shoulders, and rested outwards against her chest, where she wore a jade green barista's apron. From beneath her thin, rectangular glasses, vibrant crimson seemed tumultuous, swirling like smoke captured within a jewel. Around us chatter and the rhythmic clinking of cutlery on plates made for a strange, ethereal but grounded atmosphere.
Up till now, I had neglected (definitely not purposefully...) one of the leading insecurities that often contributed to my languid, dazed and depressed mornings. 
My height, my build, my face, my eyes, almost every bit of me was childish, not in an immature way, but in a girly fashion that brought about a whole slew of conflicting emotions pretty regularly. 
Taking all this into account, my timorous expression, and my failure to find where my tongue was and how to move my mouth, I was treated like a lost child by the woman, who cocked her head with intrigue and then smiled with sympathy. 
It wasn't a gaudy grin like those posters, but meaningful, and comforting, like the manifestation of the cozy atmosphere of the store around us.
"Hello. Are you here alone?"
I guess she's mistaken me for somebody that requires parents on the end of his leash.
"No, I'm above age."
"I meant, are you here alone? We have one seated tables."
Oh. 
The world doesn't revolve around me, or my insecurities, I guess. 
"Uhm, yes, alone, please."
"Hmhmhmhm, you sound like you're asking to be left alone."
"No, I meant, uhm-"
"It's just a joke~ Here, follow me."
Just at that moment, the spark that had fueled my trip here reignited. 
I promise, I don't usually get distracted so easily. It's the morning. It's cold. Please, give me a break. 
"Actually, I'm here about the, uh, fixer job?"
It wasn't a complete change of pace, but like the waves wash over the sandy beach, slightly shifting the grooves and mounds, her face took on a different complexion. 
And with that, she pulled me to the side, her willowy fingers clasped against my wrist, out towards the far end of the cafe area, and through a dimly lit hallway, before we burst into what looked like an office or employee break room.
In fact, there was a great many employees in various states of lazing about in there. 
"You should have said so earlier. Prudence is something you'll need, same as an alacrity of mind."
Clinging to the edges of the room were various shelves lined with the usual paraphernalia of a cafe, and some strange heaps of equipment, shiny and metallic, that I couldn't recognise. At the centre of the room, directly underneath the warm tangerine haze of the modest chandelier, were two virescent, surprisingly clean looking couches, on which two employees were sprawled over, one taking all the space for themselves, the other sitting neatly, with legs crossed. At our entrance, the one sitting far too politely gave a small glance, then returned to the papers he had trapped between the thumb and ring finger of his right hand. Sitting parallel to him was another employee, with medium length, quite neat despite his sloppy appearances, ashy blonde hair, legs up in the air as he flicked through an adult magazine with an arrogantly bored expression on his face.
I didn't have the time to analyse the faces of the others, as the lady that had guided me here planted one foot in front of mine, shielding me with her larger form, and announced to the mismatched group of misfits.
"Don't worry, I've solved all your problems."
I could hear rustles from beyond her overbearing shadow, probably the polite employee putting down his papers, and a handful of other sounds of surrender, the clinking of metal and the groan of what was probably the light-haired delinquent. 
"And how so, miss?" came politely from beyond her overshadowing form, probably from the polite one.
"You no longer have to sacrifice one of yourselves as an errand boy," and with that, she twisted herself aside, her long, choppy hair flicking in a semi-circle, showcasing me to the room like a hard-earned trophy.

When I took another look at the crumpled paper in my palm, the despondency of the situation began to truly set in.
Was I just their errand boy?
Was that really the job that had called out to me so forcefully, so personally?
I was less upset about the work itself, I was happy to do such duties, than the fact that I had deluded myself into machinations of grandeur, believing it was some kind of special calling, fate or providence, that had led me here. That many headed woman, her magical and enchanting obtuseness, grew less powerful in my mind.
Around me, people continued to filter through the streets, heads hanging low, only a select few, either arrogant or ignorant, cheerfully trotting along, like they were exempt from the destruction of our species. Come to think of it, being relatively estranged from media and such, I had quite little information outside the immediately understandable, alarming knowledge that we had a year left until, well, something. If it was the end of the human race, the end of the earth, or the end of the universe, I had little clue.
I doubt many people did either, no matter how ingrained in the societal culture they were. As governments are known to do, information seemed to have been greatly withheld, and most people are, similar to I, only vaguely aware of what was going to occur.
Preventing panic made sense, I suppose, but on the other hand, shouldn't people have the right to know what was going to happen to them and their loved ones? Actually, wouldn't people fly into an even greater panic if they had no clue what was happening?
That's up to smarter, more important people than I to decide, though.
My statement of estrangement may come across as a lie after all this, but this is all entirely secondhand knowledge.
What I mean is, by observing the people and the world around you in the right way, you could figure these things out quite easily.
Take this huddle of heavily armed men to my right, lingering just around the edge of that convenience store lot, kicking about mounds of snow while trying to come across as inconspicuous. Thick, cobalt blue cotton layers with a miscellany of pockets, bulky handheld Retaliation Devices gripped tightly enough that their nervousness was clear as day. As people began to grow more tense, more erratic, their tension finally bouncing forward like a rubber band, more and more of these enforcers have begun to roam the streets. Put that together with the increased gossip and hushed murmurs of killings and assaults in previously safe areas, the men marching along streets, clad in faded robes and clanking thick chains alongside their ankles, murmuring about unavoidable futures and pasts, and it's clear to see that we're barreling towards the end, and nobody knows why or what do to.
Stopping it is even further out of the question.
How can you stop someone's punch from landing when you don't even know where it'd coming from?
Like I said, whether it's the destruction of earth or just humanity is still unknown, so we don't even know where the punch is aiming.
I lowered my head as I passed by the group of enforcers, the long haired one to the fringe of the group, smoking with heavy sighs against the maze-like pipes of the alleyway, glaring as I passed.
A lot of those still remaining in the punitive forces are there out of sadism, as depressing as that is to admit as a fact. The rest are equally as warped, obstinate and unable to let go of their morals, which makes for a bad mix, and the frequent butting of heads. I could tell from the sour look the long-haired man was getting from his prim and proper peer, who looked like he didn't go a single millisecond over his appointed break time. Those who stretch their break time to its limits and well past them, and those who wouldn't dare being anything but early to their return from it.
Maybe you can cleanly divide the world up into those two groups of people, if you want to be facile about it.
I could feel the cold biting at my earlobes, and I would be glad to return to the warmth of that blissful cafe once more. A red hue leaked out into the frosty blue haze of the morning from the traffic lights, their half-cylindrical, hat-like shelter caked with translucent, black ice. While I waited, I pulled that crumpled paper from my coat pocket once again, but was seized by an intense, piercing frigidity 

Below the tingling sensation of the thin layer of frost that had begun to encircle my fingers, there was a fierce burning. A burning that made it difficult to distinguish between immense cold or ferocious heat. I had wandered, far enough for there to be seldom a passerby, almost the polar opposite of the bustling, noisy streets, glowing with an antinomic cheerfulness and fluorescence. What lay underneath the thick tangles of wire, almost like the foliage roof of a jungle, and between the dilapidated, at the risk of endless repetition, cold-looking concrete (both in aesthetics and tangibility) buildings that pushed up against the tiny alleyway, was the source of that strange, fearful sensation.
Not being able to distinguish between hot and cold bloomed a sense of dread within me.
Behind me the clustered voices that had been muted into murmurs served as a kind of white noise, but my vision was focused intently on what lay, quite literally, splattered before me.
My disorientation made it difficult to take an accurate estimate, and just when I thought I had a rough number in my head, I realised, to the dismay of my stomach, that I had been including torn off pieces in my count.
That is to say, the bodies that were spread across from me, their blood beginning to harden and stick them to the cracked concrete they lay contorted upon, included many that were in too mangled a state to differentiate from entirely new bodies or just ruptured appendages.
My feet felt like they had also been frozen to the pavement.
There was so much blood pooled between every tiny crack, licking at each of the motionless corpses.
I stepped forward.
I was afraid, disgusted, repulsed, worried, anxious, terrified.
But something pushed me forward.
As I reached the far end of that scattering of black and crimson, the final body that lay ahead of me caught my attention.
It was at this point that my rational mind decided to kick in.
There was something seriously wrong with me if it took this long, but I guess everybody has their faults.
To shift the blame once again, there wasn't all that much rational about our world anymore.
More importantly, there was still something called the law and a moral responsibility floating somewhere in my head. Jostling in my pocket, I took the old flip-phone that had been my faithful companion all these years, and finally put it to some respectable, altruistic use.
Behind me, underneath the layer of smothering frost that persisted throughout the sunrise and beyond, muffled by that cold, a strained, painful voice spoke either to me, or the corpses; it was difficult to tell.
"They're all from my office... They're my friends..."
Slowly, seized with an intense dread that had begun to whirl and whirl, like a washing-machine gaining speed with every second, my head turned towards that deep growl, sonorous even below the thick layers of icy air. 
Tied back yet sporadic and uninhibited, wilds strands of heavy brown flew in waves around the head of the man, whose body was hunched in fury. Leaning on his trembling shoulder was a massive hunk of metal, boiling with his overflowing hatred for whatever lay splattered across the space between us.
Or what stood before him, blood pooling at his feet. 
Myself.