Nightime Encounter

Russian satellites are overhead. I can feel their steel, the harsh metal bits that move like a creeping demon in the night sky, the dark time when owls roam, when dreams take form, when men run. Every twinkling star is long gone, shadowed by machinery and blinking lights that disguise themselves with distance. But I can feel the heat from their engines, here, alone on my bed, beneath a thick, checkered pink and black afghan blanket, wisps of hair dance in the waves of engine gas. White heat burns a hole, a tunnel of yellow and black burrows through my third eye, right through a thin layer of cranium and into my forebrain...the beginning, where superficial thoughts are born, where petty demands are made and whispers of tears are born.
Large weapons spiral in the skies above, helicopters as big as cities hover and wait. their blinking lights flash as I look through the thin paned window.
On the ground, on the soft earth that still has a few sparse-leafed trees giving the last of their apples, there are the Russian troops, thick men with wide, white faces. They will give no smile. Nothing can crack the resolve etched across the lines of their thin, red lips.
Sttttccrakkkk, a flash of lighting streaks across the street. There are sounds of popping, sounds of falling glass splintering. A dark figure moves in the night, beneath a heavy coat made of wool. He darts down the street, he moves to the right, his arms raise, he turns slightly to the right, dodging the large bullets that aim to rip apart tissue and soft muscle. Run! Move through the storm of silver rain!
He runs, a lone figure against the darker coming storm. He moves with the grace of god. An army at his back, he moves like a psychic through their messages of despise. I see him run, but at the same time, as though I can see everything on three separate screens, each possibility before my eyes at once, I see him in the center of a thousand stoic men, the smell of metabolizing beer mixed in with the cold night.
He pulls a gun from his coat, he has identified their leader. Amid a thousand men of the same size, the same emotionless faces, he has spotted the leader, his gun aimed squarely at a head of long brown hair. A female shows her face, smooth and white in the night, her pink lips open to a small smile, a hint of evil, a glimmer of utter submission. Her dark overcoat falls and she is naked, a beaming star among the shadows.
The troops flee at the sound of her command. They move like water down an unplugged drain. They disappear, along with their guns, and the two of them are now alone.