The clock strikes 12:00. Just as they do every night, the two  men take their positions at the top of the wall. The cold brisk air gives their breath life. There is not much talk between them. They walk to the miniscule steel station at the corner of the platform to record diagnostics and fire up the protection and camera systems. Within the hut they find warmth and a small refrigerator chalked full with cold meats, fruit, water, and various starches. One notices that they are low on bread so he takes out his wooden clipboard and jots down, “Notify base: Increase in carbohydrates is required.” All is fairly routine. The grotesque bags under their eyes tell the story: repetition.  
Meet Trevor and Dale. They are the guards and “technical specialists” of base No. 32. They operate their trade on the Northeastern border of The Republic. Their duties simple, check mechanical operations daily, make sure their stretch of the wall is still intact, and destroy anyone or anything that comes within viewing distance of their wall.
Trevor is 43. He has been a mainstay at this post for 22 years now, and things do not look to be changing. His low scores in the academy along with numerous disciplinary charges have dealt him a fairly bleak situation in terms of escape. His future is as dark as the untrimmed beard he has become accustom to. The routine lifestyle he has lived thus far has numbed him. Lazy and incompetent, he has become the epitome of what The Republic has tried to eliminate. His co worker and the fifth “technical specialist”, he has been partnered with, Dale, is rather new. Still within his first month on the job, he has found it difficult to adapt to the hellish weather Siberia brings. Like a drop of water in the desert, he is out of tune with his surroundings. His long floppy hair constantly being flung around by the violent winds, his languid and brittle physique no match for the frigid temperatures, and his small frame constantly weezing from the oxygen deprived air. Nevertheless, his mental instincts have caught on quickly to the technaqalaties of the job. He was considered on of the brightest when graduating from the academy, so it was all rather unfortunate when he discovered he would be shipped out to station 32.
Still half intoxicated from a couple hours earlier, Trevor stumbles to the printer and yanks the diagnostics clipboard off the desk. Writing his name, followed by Dale’s, he begins to check all the gauges and instruments for the weekly readings. He stops for a second, “Hey Brainiac, what date you got?”
“I believe it is the third of 24th of January now sir”
Grabbing his pencil he jots down, “1/24/3012”. Next he fills out the internal and external readings of the wall, followed up by a surface check to make sure no excessive freezings have gnawed out any holes, and then he finishes it off with the premises check in which he inspects the heat map for any signs of life outside of the wall. All is going just as the 7,832 other days have gone for Trevor.
Dale, hovers of the the monitors now for the camera checks. He peers at cameras: A1 through D6. Nothing but grey and white fills the screen. The immense steel wall is in the same exact shape as it was when they first built it back in 2543. He rubs the hairs on the back of his neck his head, “Why does the ambassador waste his resources by placing us out here? If you really haven’t seen anything in all of your years then why waste it?”
“Listen kid, you don’t know what went on before us. We were attacked, and lost basically our whole population, now if putting two suckers out here in the middle of nowhere is what it takes to keep us safe, then so be it.”
Glaring back at Trevor, Dale shakes his head and thinks to himself. “Asshole”.
The sound of blistering windy snowfall infused with the ticking clock make up the soundtrack. Trevor sips his morning coffee and scotch while, Dale plays solitaire. It is around 3:43. The sounds that once were, become masked by the siren. They are not alarmed, the siren can go off pretty easily, be it for external wall damage or merely a lack of water in the humidifier. They go about and check the gauges. Dale peering to the ones on the left and Trevor to the right. After scanning the gauges Dale shouts, “I got nothin.”
A disgruntled look overcomes Trevor’s face, “That can’t be. All my gauges are reading perfectly.”
The two peer at each other as if the answer lies in each other’s eyes. Simultaneously they realize that the issue is far graver than they thought. They dart to the monitors and frantically begin to look over each camera. Trevor’s raspy voice shouting camera numbers contrasted by Dale’s youthful tone declaring that they are clear. With only clear white mountains and cliffs on the screen to peer at, any outstanding feature will not go unnoticed. With each camera monitor they bypass, the sweat on their palms builds. “C12!... Dammit Dale what is the prognosis on C12!”
A shellshocked Dale can merely anguish at the scene in front of him. Turning his head to Trevor, his voice trembles, “You might want to take a look at this sir.”.
Trevor inches his eyes to the screen, before Dale can take a breath, Trevor grabs the firing console, by its black leather handles. Under his breath he takes a short prayer then proceeds to pull the trigger. Camera C12 is blinded, through the windows they see about 200 miles away a glimmer of light in the sea of darkness.
The light subsides. A shellshocked Dale leaves the monitor. Trevor takes a close up. Slowly nudging the nozzle with his thumb he zooms in on the figure. Lying dead on the ground, a figure reminiscent of  human remains. As the monitor focuses in, the white eyes are revealed. The sky blue skin mixed with the red blood is distinguishable, and the coconut shaped head lacking ears, mouth, and a nose are exposed. Still unable to look at the screen Dale clears his throat, “Was it a-”
Before he can finish his sentence Trevor answers, “Yep”
“Should I notify base.”
“Yep”