The sun set on the Aztec Nation, the inhabitants of the Heart Of The One World hurried into homes, inns, temples, to escape the wrath of the god Night Wind. Insubstantial Gods of the imagination were much less of a threat that night, then what the winds carried in from the eastern sea. Armel Castello set crouched on the blood stained flat top of the great pyramid centered in the plaza watching the last straggling Aztec retire under roof. He held his bare finger tip to a flat panel set into the skin like material of his suit for a full three seconds. There was a moment of nausea, a swaying, and then he could smell the ancient air, feel the breeze wafting up from the still warm stones of the plaza. The glowing panels in his heads up display dimmed, sputtered to full brightness for a moment,, and then were dead. There was no going back now.

He looked down at his black suit, which hugged tightly to his body and thickened in areas, giving him the appearance of a black clad fencer, the silver threads that carried warmth to his body were dimming and fading out, though he didn’t mind it. It was cold when he was there, but now that he was in sync with only one place and time, he found the local temperature to be ideal.

His location was not. though he did not know it, the priests of Olmac did not fear the god Night Wind and came nightly to the temple on top of which he was perched at that very moment. He heard them speaking softly, perhaps chanting, coming up the snake like path that led up the pyramid before they saw him. His generator had enough juice to shroud him, for several hours if need be, but that was no solution. He’d have to do what he came to do with the aid of the cloak, and he was sure to have far worse adversaries to avoid then heart hungry priests. Indeed, as if in protest by some local God at his trespassing in their domain, his perimeter alert came on, and as the priests passed him by oblivious, the alert chirping in his helmet quickened and deepened in tone.

“He’s within a hundred meters, over.” John Dirk whispered into the microphone nestled beneath his chin. He swept his head this way and that, the night vision panels that layed over both of his eyes converted the black into exaggerated, though accurate color, as the light passed through them. The Gravimetric scanner over his heart swept the plaza more than a thousand times a second, the telltale beat-beat of hundreds of hearts fell through his computer’s filter, all but one. Anyone employed in the field of temporal exploration had to undergo several unique augmentations. One of which was an adjustment of the pattern of the heart beat. “Got ya.” He whispered to himself. He shivered against the cold, the white vapors of his breath escaping the Temporal Envelope Field and fanning out into the Aztec plaza as he pulled a black revolver from his belt. Of course he was never allowed to use the crude weapon, but this was his favorite type of fire arm, and he never went on a mission without it. This was a special mission, one that he would remember, and be remembered for. He pulled the hammer down on the revolver and blinked twice at the icon in his heads up display that would drop him, if only for a few minutes, into the wretched land of primitives.