Koenig808
Inactive Member
"Don't worry."
The piercing rush of air that greeted him when the doors of the vehicle opened was nothing compared to such a statement. What minutes ago was the chaotic mix of gunfire and shouting had surrendered to the droning of high winds, and the short bursts of bright muzzle flashes gave way to the dimness of a blizzard-choked afternoon. He could barely make out the dark splotches in the snow that were once his comrades, men that he shared a drink with at the local bar not more than a hours ago.
If it weren't for their rushed movements, he would never have spotted the men in white over the corpses of the dead; some disrobing and disarming them, and some moving and then disappearing as they secured a perimeter. There would be no burials. Violent crime in the Democratic Imperium of Nepleslia was far from unheard of, and this planet was no exception.
Hence why wasn't hurried along at all. There was ample time given to him to survey the carnage that an a invisible hand had wrought. Feelings of disbelief soon gave way to a despaired realization: the hand had been invisible and non-corporeal, but he had given it life. He had allowed it to manifest in this frozen hell to visit a brief but burning moment of violence upon the only real source of warmth he had on this cold, dark planet.
There was a soft crunch as he came to the ground on his hands and knees, and the tears that ran down his face only served to enhance the pain that the cold wreaked upon him. He knew what was to happen to their families, to himself and his own. Everyone would disappear, not just the recently deceased. Worse yet, he knew the fate of those that betray their comrades. The men that stood witness to his betrayal of trust, those that were responsible for such violence were monsters in their own right, yet even they knew the value of comradeship. They knew the punishment one received for violating such a sacred ideal.
He could feel himself being tugged to his feet. Either the man that was guiding him to the abyss was abnormally strong, or he himself was ready to accept his own fate and rose on his own fading strength.
The frigid temperature had become worse, now, as his clothing was put into a container containing the clothes of his comrades, and dropped into the car that he would soon not own. Then, searing and blinding pain accompanied by the muffled report of a suppressed weapon would assault his senses, making him crumple into the snow in a useless wreck.
The sound of multiple vehicles approached, and struggling to get a look at them, he soon found that the projectiles had shattered a majority of his joints, effectively immobilizing him. Frozen in a frozen wasteland.
His ferryman stood above him, and for a brief moment was surrounded by several armed men, who hastily got into the vehicles and left the two of them.
"Like I said, don't worry." The sound of a hammer dropping on a pistol barely registered with him, and the man towering above him offered him what he could in terms of words of comfort in his final minutes.
"The cold eventually numbs everything."
He could only watch as the lights of his automobile slowly disappeared into the distance as the cold took him away.
A few hours later, at "Natasha's Bar," a rather unassuming figure made his entrance by letting the furious blizzard leak in for a few seconds upon opening the door.
The frost on his cold weather gear already starting to melt and pool on the surface of his heavy coat, the newcomer ordered himself a bottle of beer and made his way to one of the empty tables. Soft music had been enjoyed by the alcoholics that made up the customer base of this particular establishment, and the subdued orange lighting made it perfect for drunken men to either wallow or engage in peaceful silence.
Pulling out two pairs of ID cards, the newcomer compared his facial features on the fresh copy to the old one, the owner of which he had buried in the snow half an hour ago. Finding no faults with the copy, he immediately took out a small vial of liquid and dropped it on the picture of the original owner's, waited for it to melt the plastic of the card, and simply dropped it in a small space between his bench and the wall of the bar, to be found in however long his superiors decided to fund this bar as a base of operations on this planet.
"Could have chosen a fucking titty bar..."
At that, Kurt placed the unopened green bottle in the middle of the table and waited, hoping the new recruits remembered the subtle sign that designated him as their contact.
The piercing rush of air that greeted him when the doors of the vehicle opened was nothing compared to such a statement. What minutes ago was the chaotic mix of gunfire and shouting had surrendered to the droning of high winds, and the short bursts of bright muzzle flashes gave way to the dimness of a blizzard-choked afternoon. He could barely make out the dark splotches in the snow that were once his comrades, men that he shared a drink with at the local bar not more than a hours ago.
If it weren't for their rushed movements, he would never have spotted the men in white over the corpses of the dead; some disrobing and disarming them, and some moving and then disappearing as they secured a perimeter. There would be no burials. Violent crime in the Democratic Imperium of Nepleslia was far from unheard of, and this planet was no exception.
Hence why wasn't hurried along at all. There was ample time given to him to survey the carnage that an a invisible hand had wrought. Feelings of disbelief soon gave way to a despaired realization: the hand had been invisible and non-corporeal, but he had given it life. He had allowed it to manifest in this frozen hell to visit a brief but burning moment of violence upon the only real source of warmth he had on this cold, dark planet.
There was a soft crunch as he came to the ground on his hands and knees, and the tears that ran down his face only served to enhance the pain that the cold wreaked upon him. He knew what was to happen to their families, to himself and his own. Everyone would disappear, not just the recently deceased. Worse yet, he knew the fate of those that betray their comrades. The men that stood witness to his betrayal of trust, those that were responsible for such violence were monsters in their own right, yet even they knew the value of comradeship. They knew the punishment one received for violating such a sacred ideal.
He could feel himself being tugged to his feet. Either the man that was guiding him to the abyss was abnormally strong, or he himself was ready to accept his own fate and rose on his own fading strength.
The frigid temperature had become worse, now, as his clothing was put into a container containing the clothes of his comrades, and dropped into the car that he would soon not own. Then, searing and blinding pain accompanied by the muffled report of a suppressed weapon would assault his senses, making him crumple into the snow in a useless wreck.
The sound of multiple vehicles approached, and struggling to get a look at them, he soon found that the projectiles had shattered a majority of his joints, effectively immobilizing him. Frozen in a frozen wasteland.
His ferryman stood above him, and for a brief moment was surrounded by several armed men, who hastily got into the vehicles and left the two of them.
"Like I said, don't worry." The sound of a hammer dropping on a pistol barely registered with him, and the man towering above him offered him what he could in terms of words of comfort in his final minutes.
"The cold eventually numbs everything."
He could only watch as the lights of his automobile slowly disappeared into the distance as the cold took him away.
A few hours later, at "Natasha's Bar," a rather unassuming figure made his entrance by letting the furious blizzard leak in for a few seconds upon opening the door.
The frost on his cold weather gear already starting to melt and pool on the surface of his heavy coat, the newcomer ordered himself a bottle of beer and made his way to one of the empty tables. Soft music had been enjoyed by the alcoholics that made up the customer base of this particular establishment, and the subdued orange lighting made it perfect for drunken men to either wallow or engage in peaceful silence.
Pulling out two pairs of ID cards, the newcomer compared his facial features on the fresh copy to the old one, the owner of which he had buried in the snow half an hour ago. Finding no faults with the copy, he immediately took out a small vial of liquid and dropped it on the picture of the original owner's, waited for it to melt the plastic of the card, and simply dropped it in a small space between his bench and the wall of the bar, to be found in however long his superiors decided to fund this bar as a base of operations on this planet.
"Could have chosen a fucking titty bar..."
At that, Kurt placed the unopened green bottle in the middle of the table and waited, hoping the new recruits remembered the subtle sign that designated him as their contact.