Captivity
#4 of The Hunter and The Rabbit
Axel stared out the pitiful excuse for a barred window in his cell, with only light to keep his hope burning for a second chance at freedom.
"We've improved security since your last visit.... We do hope you have a pleasant stay in top-notch captivity." James had said.
Axel kicked the wall with a yell, a thud of metal as his shoe made hateful contact with the smooth surface that reflected a distorted rendition. _______________________________________
"There isn't much difference between Human and Terran Gun Meisters, sir." A man told his associate, a man dressed in a lab coat over a dark suit and with slim glasses upon his gaunt face. He perked it up briefly with a smirk.
"Perhaps you are right. Then this certainly means that the common Gun Meister is not born through genetics, but rather through exterior forces." The professor replied. The other man then checked his datapad. "An exterior force... God?" The man suggested. The professor chuckled. "Not 'a' God. A God-Like Being..." He clarified. The other man then shivered slightly. "The church wouldn't be pleased..." He began. The professor laughed. "With what? To find out that their 'Maker' created the 'demons' they so abhor, or the fact that their 'God' is nothing so Divine?" The professor asked. The man shook his head.
"Both. We have to keep this quiet, or they'll destroy us." The professor then nodded thoughtfully. "But of course... We wouldn't want to purge the world into bitter chaos, would we?" He asked, turning around to face the desk and perking up his glasses once more.
But in a sudden, subtle moment, the man's throat was blown out, his vocal chords severed by a single calculative bullet as a silenced gunshot sounded off in such close quarters, the poor professor collapsing upon the desk with an empty and unsounding cry.
As he fell away, the man pointed his modified gun up to the ceiling as wisps of smoke danced at the rim of the silencer, a stoic look upon his face. "No... We wouldn't." The man said.
He then stowed away his gun beneath his lab coat and walked away from the body as he pulled out a communicator. "This is Eraser 557, Codename Irvenwall. Numbers 7 and 13, the operation has commenced." He announced under his breath, walking over to the mainframe computer in the room. He put back his communicator and worked through the computer that was already logged in, all thanks to the good professor who now laid dead upon his desk, blood just dripping out onto the desk from his neck as his glazed eyes stared out towards the door.
The man started to search for files, particular files he knew much of, and systematically began to delete, delete and delete as he wished. ____________________________
The Maximillian Corp building held dominance and superiority within Rejalion's business district, towering above all other buildings that were even then tall in their own right. The importance of the Maximillian Corp building was signified by their personal plaza placed out the front of the building, a fountain and statue erected of the old Mr. Maximillian, forger and creator of the great industrial company that supposedly exists to create a better tomorrow for all Paradicial.
Bands of people began to gather under the cloak of darkness that was sparsely pierced by the city streetlights, the moons high above in the sky. However, these people were not conventionally dressed, all wearing masks with a single mysterious symbol marked upon the front, all these strange people looking all the same and indifferent. Every one of them was cloaked, their hands hidden beneath darkest silk.
Only two amongst them looked totally different and unique, even from each other.
One was most young, no older than 19, with gentle Caucasian skin tone and soft chestnut hair and golden eyes. He wore a tattered black trenchcoat over darker shirt and jeans with black leather boots, and beneath his coat was the glint of a heavy revolver at his belt.
The other was older, in his late 20s, with olive skin, dark hair to match his garments and hazel eyes hidden by tinted sunglasses, most strange to be worn at night. Unlike his companion, he wore a snazzy black suit with grey undershirt, a gold and steel chain whip hot and ready in his firm hands, the whip curled around his left arm in boredom.
They had gotten the signal, and the man chuckled, caressing the chains of his whip and stepping forward towards the building. "It has begun..." The man said to his companion. He then glanced to the young man, tilting his head down to gaze over the rim of his glasses at his comrade. "13, you know what to do." He noted.
The young man nodded and stepped to the side briskly, as the man chuckled and turned back to face the building, the many 'cloaked' others gathering around him. He uncurled the whip from his arm and let it clatter to the ground as he pulled out his own communicator. "This is Number 7, commencing stage one of the operation!" He clarified, before stowing away his communicator and jerking his free hand to the others, indicating forward movement.
Instantly, the cloaks were unfurled and suddenly, the clean, crisp yet non-descript uniforms were revealed to citylight, bayonet rifles procured from the rippling silk cloaks that were swept aside and used as capes. The masked soldiers followed their unmasked leader, as they marched swiftly towards the glass doors to the lobby of the Maximillian Corp building.
Whoever these masked soldiers and their 'numbered' leaders were, they were not to be trifled with.