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Antithesis -> RE: (HS) Fairgates:Antithesis (9/19/2011 16:49:37)
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Prologue: Part 1
Year: 1942
Location: New York City
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“You’s e’bsolutely sur'a dis?”
There was a man sitting in the room. He wore a brown trench coat, and had a fedora under his hand. He was a large, round, Russian man. A Russian man who spoke with a twisted accent, somewhere between a Brooklyn New Yorker and a Ukrainian.
The room itself was fairly shabby. It had concrete walls, a steel floor, a metal table, and some briefcases laying around near bookshelves that were lined up in the room, books strewn throughout. The room was dimly lit, with a single metal lamp laying on the table turned on so the Russian could see.
“I cen-get ‘hem dere... I jus’ need ye’ word dat d’ranks’re clear. Mmkay?”
“You have my word.”
This other man was an American. He clothed himself in a black business suit, with no tie. He had a white collared shirt underneath his closed suit-jacket. He was roughly 6 and a half feet tall, aged, and looked as though he had fought a multitude of wars in his many years of life. He was in excellent shape, even for someone half his age, and he reminded the Russian man of an oak tree. He spoke in such a way that his authority was not doubted. He had pride in his rough, edged voice.
“This man has been alive too long, and he got lucky. He doesn’t age like the rest of us.”
“Heh, yeh’ a’supose he dun’t.” The Russian man gave a gruff laugh under his breath.
“He doesn’t. He’s not like the rest of us. He got his nanites in excess. This should have killed the poor kid, but it didn’t. He’s different. Enough said.”
“Eh, ya’kay. So, lem’me get back t’work? I ‘ave a lot to do, and I dun like dis’urbensis.”
“Get it done swiftly, Kruschev. You know I don’t tolerate latency. It’d be a shame if I had to teach you to work. I’m not your father.”
At this, the Russian man, Kruschev, gave a hard stare.
“D’ya know who you’s talkin’ to?” He spoke calmly, before exploding into anger. “YOU ‘AVE FIVE SECONDS TA GID’OUT OF MY FACE ‘FORE I KICK YOUR TEETH IN, AN’ TEAR YOUR ARMS OFF, AN’ BEAT YA’ WITH ‘EM! GET OUT!”
The American sighed, took his jacket off and lay it on the chair. He walked over slowly with a sick look on his face.
“Nope.”
He flew his fist towards the Russian man’s face, landing right on the side of his head. Kruschev fell to the floor, breathing heavily.
“S’dat da best you’s got?” Kruschev said, standing up un-phased. “Hit m’again, I dare ya’.”
He stood there, calmly.
The American, frustrated, threw another punch at the Russian. Kruschev stood there, took the hit, and didn’t even blink. The American threw another punch, another hit, another punch, another hit, and so on and so forth for about two minutes. Kruschev bounced around a little, moving with the American’s punches.
“Hah! Dis s’pretty fun, ah? Lem’me give it a try.”
Kruschev grabbed the American, and slammed his face with massive force directly onto the metal table next to them. A loud *pang* noise reverberated through the room, and
the American lay there; bloody, mangled. After a few moments, he pulled himself up, slowly.
“Well, there you go, Kruschev. You pissed me off.”
The American jumped into the air, kicking the Russian square in the jaw, and proceeded to jump over the table and slap Kruschev with his fist. He ran towards his opponent in a fashion similar to a rhinoceros, throwing Kruschev towards the wall.
Kruschev shook his head a little, dazed.
“Well... dat one kind’hurt.”
The Russian flew his hands in the air and flew both of them, straightened, to the sides of the American’s face.
“No.”
The American grabbed Kruschev’s arms mid-air, pulling them past him as he flung his feet straight into the Russian’s chest, over and over again. He then grasped the Russian’s left arm, spun it over his back, and threw him to the ground. A large dent formed in the middle of the steel floor around Kruschev.
“Ha, well pla’d, American, well pla’d.”
The Russian stood up, brushed himself off, and sat down at the bloody metal table.
“Le’s talk. Tell me ‘bout dis kid, Scott or whatev’s ‘tis you’s call him.”
The American stood, breathing slowly and deeply. He sat down and looked the Russian dead in the eyes.
“I understand I can’t force you to do anything. So I’m going to ask you. Now, normally I don’t ask anyone anything. I tell them. But, for this, I’ll make an exception.”
The American, moving faster than the human eye can see, pulled a syringe from his coat pocket and stabbed the Russian in the side of the neck, injecting its contents into him.
“What da he-” The Russian cut himself off as he started screaming in pain. His skin shaded itself to a deep purple color, his veins seeming to come out of his flesh. His eyes immediately bloodshot, and every muscle in his body seemed to tighten up as if he had a severe case of tetanus.
“What d-did ya’ do ta’... me?!” He yelled out, in between sharp waves of pain.
“I showed you what pain was, in its truest, most pure form. You’re going to get this job done. I do not want to have to come back here and kill you. You’re valuable to me. I need you alive. That’s why you’re not already dead. In about thirty seconds you’re going to black out. In eight hours, you’ll wake up. You’ll be sore. In fact, I won’t lie, it’ll hurt like hell. That’s what happens when every single one of your non-vital muscles pull as hard as they can. Like a strong rope.” The American acted as if his hands were holding a rope, pulling them apart, mimicking its existence. “Don’t let me down, Kruschev. It’d be a shame if I had to do this again.”
The American stood up, grabbing his jacket. The Russian lay with his face on the table, passed out cold. His flesh was still purple, and his body bounced back and forth as if he was having a seizure, yellow foam dripping from his closed lips.
The American was simply standing for a second or so, adjusting his jacket so it looked professional. He then waited a few moments, observing Kruschev’s pained body.
Slowly, he reached over and grabbed Kruschev’s hat.
“It’s a nice hat. Thanks.”
He walked away and opened the door, placing the fedora on his head as he made his way out into the pouring rain.
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