The Arctic Circle
Snow crunched softly beneath the silver-lined heels of von Lichter's boots, the wind gently blowing at his verdant cloak. He marched up a sharp incline, willing himself along ever so softly with the power pulsating from his gloves. He practically slid up the mountainside, gliding telekinetically as though in a dream. The soft snow parted beneath his feet, leaving only a small trail; he snapped a finger as he reached the top, coming to a stop over the set of precise coordinates he'd retrieved only a day previously.
He rested his hand on his knee, squinting his eyes at the plateau. There was naught but a collection of downed power wires, remnants of a research station past. But he knew the truth.
Raising his hand, lightning-like tendrils of pseudo-mystic energy lashed out, wracking the side of the invisible station with a burst of power. The failsafe cloaking technology surrounding the site collapsed inwards, a large metal base fading into being. Covered in snow and utterly abandoned, it was an anomaly amongst the stark white background - and it bore the mark of one of history's most diabolical geniuses.
His trip to Pera had been fruitful indeed...
The Station
Bulkheads bent and wires twisted with a gesture, a gaping hole opening within the control tower of the station. He hovered through, suspended in mid-air by his technological supremacy. Pulling himself through the hole with an invisible hand, he descended, boots clunking against the frozen floor. Raising an armored hand, he sent forth another pulse, a radar-like boop which mapped out his surroundings.
There, he thought with a smile, isolating the room he was looking for. He drew back a fist, and punched through the wall, stepping through into a ruined atrium.
The remnants of Hastings' demise surrounded him. Scorch marks lined the walls, the self-destruct overheating most of the technology within the superstructure. But all was not lost, oh, no. He gestured, eyes locked on a pillar in the middle of the room.
The side of the construct was torn asunder, a spherical object within. Klaus twisted his fingers, coaxing it through the air.
Hastings' original metal head hovered towards his hand. The eyes were blasted-out, jaw slack, but caught in a disturbing rictus; another clue to his theory. The dented forehead locked to his fingers, and he held the skull of the mass-murdering machine between his palms. Cocking his head to the side, he planted his thumbs firmly in the eye-sockets, twisting the copper-like bones in a peculiar manner - just as the blueprint in Pera told him to.
Steam vented from the cracks, and the head opened ever so slightly. Inside was Hastings' core processor, a tiny chip which seemed to ooze menace. It was burned at the edges, a side effect of his target's self-destruction...but on a whole, it was salvageable.
He smiled, vanishing into shadow with the silver skull.
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