His suit beeps a warning as he passes through the chill of the snowstorm, eddies of supercold gas kicking up flakes of frozen water and methane swirling around him. He almost feels he should leave this to Meliantha, but that would be stupid. Only dolts in old movies do that. No, instead he unholsters his pulse rifle from the selection system hatch on his back, sighting it and taking aim at the dim, faint ball of light as the flakes begin to clear.

...He's had to do longer shots. Now if only the damn snowflakes wouldn't stick to his glasses--

The dull, thudding pulses of energy blast out of the snowstorm, hurtling his way.