"He can help us." A woman in the corner of the room pleads, "We should alert-"
"We should alert no one." Spoke the voice of a leader, squatting down to meet a gaze which did not match his own, the broken man tied to a metal chair. Deep within this complex, he was at their mercy.
Against his protest, the woman alerts one of the commanders. Stepping out of the room, a rush of anger flows through the man's heart. His stimulant-riddled mind playing tricks on him. Footsteps begin coming from every corner, clock hands begin turning in the wrong direction, he feels as if he's walking across walls. All of it comes to a halt when the commander steps back out of the confined room.
"Put him in a cell until someone can speak with him." A half-measure is spoken. It was only him, the apathetic woman, and the prisoner left remaining inside of the complex. He steps back inside, now ten inches taller, his face a bright red - concealed beneath his mask.
He squats down once more, a horrifc smile forming across his even more horrific face. He licked his lips as he reached forward, blinking. When his eyes opened, he is met with the cheering of tens of thousands in the audience of a grand arena. Across from him in the pit, stands the prisoner, holding a meager butter knife. In his own hands - a four foot long broadsword.
He took a step toward the man, the crowd immediately roaring in applause as he began his assault. At this point, the man he was fighting had no identity. The original reason for the arrest slipped his mind as he struggled to recall the origin for this encounter. All he wished to do was run him through with the armament.
Petrified in fear, his opponent stays frozen as he raises the sword, hacking at his head, only for it to be narrowly ducked under. Thousands of jeers follow suit, a viscous "HAGHF-" coming from his lips. This would be the rat's only evasion, however. A quick flourish, a swift reposition - the sword finds itself square in his chest, rammed straight through his heart.
As soon as the blade enters the dead man's chest, his eyes fly open. A firearm in his hand, blood pooling across the room, the woman on his right - a gunshot in her vest. Struggling to his feet, he stares into the pool of blood. His own reflection gazing back at him.
"He went for her gun, snatched it. We did what we had to do."
Somewhere beneath the towering, monolithic precinct, a beaten, starved man cowers in the corner of a damp interrogation room. His hands and arms were each a mangled mess, fingers snapped in wrong directions. He uncontrollably shakes from the combination of the pain, the cold, and the fear.
The loud, overwhelming noise of a siren blares into the room, a male voice blasting across a PA. "On program. Hands on the back of your head."
The cripple can barely muster the strength to wriggle his digits and hands, much less lift them.
Light briefly streams into the room from the opening of a door, but is subsequently shut off. All that remains to see is the dim bulb dangling from the ceiling. From the shadows steps in the man's soon-to-be butcher himself.
"Mister Hyde. You're a difficult, worm-like rodent to catch. The train arrives within an hour." Spoke the monster through large, fish-like lips. His service had begun forcing him to suffer through hair loss. His skin was now as white as a pristine piano key, only patches of hair remaining. The only color on his face was the brown and purple bags that remained under his eyes.
With every syllable, the man on the ground recoiled from the boom of the mind-mutant's voice. Something pre-historic in scale resonated from the being's presence.
"Though, all rats squeal in the end. The information you provided us has been more than prudent to a few investigations." Stepping forward, the rhythmic clicks of his heeled boots radiate throughout the room. He leans in, now nose-to-hideous-nose.
"Did you know that stalkers perceive time at a thousandth of a speed of a human? The suffering is eternal, relatively. A traitor's fate. Your fate, Mister Hyde. How does it feel to betray your own race? Me and you - well, we're going to spend this last hour as if it's our last."
A feminine figure emerges from the darkness, a metallic device in her hands. Keying a command on a datapad, razor sharp blades sprung out of it, forcing it to levitate in the air. The crimson glow from its eye port beams down onto the cripple.
A broken jaw sputters out blood, a swollen tongue makes a plea. "NO - NO... PLEASE-" The now-duo looms over the damned soul.
"Where. Are. The Doves?" spoke the Mastermind.
...
Later that night, the freak finds himself buried in thin covers. The quiet sounds of the barracks stir around him. As he dozes off into a deep sleep, fantasies of tearing the life out of two of his alleged allies plague his mind. His next targets. A traitor, and someone closer to home.
Somewhere, deep within the precinct, the distant sounds of a judgement waiver blare from the streets above. An administrator dead, an officer deserviced, his body missing. In a damp supply closet, the truth comes out.
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