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SA: The Rifle

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SA: The Rifle

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Marten on Fri May 18, 2007 8:09 pm

The slow, monotonous drone of a ceiling fan filled the room, a respite against the deafening roar of silence that came with being far above the streets of Veritas, cut off from the throng of automatons below. As the fan performed its inane task of cooling the already turgid temperature of the apartment, Rhuzyo could not help but smirk at the name the city had been given. Few were educated in this conglomerate of filth and depravity, and when they spoke its name, he grimaced. In one of the olden tongues meant "truth", which was the exact opposite of the metropolis and its denizens that did nothing but lie and cheat during every passing moment.

The room's size was minuscule and it was abstemiously furnished. The only source of light was a fluorescent bulb, suspended from the ceiling with nothing more than a bare, copper wire. A cot consisting of a bare mattress and torn sheets was tucked into the farthest corner from the entrance, adjacent to the door while a window, shrouded by blinds, lay a few feet above the cot. In the corner diagonally across the bed was a toilet and sink, a vent located directly above the porcelain as an attempt to lessen the scent of urine and feces that would linger after use.

In the room's very center was a seat, placed atop a large sheet of plastic that acted as a barrier between the tattered carpet and the pool of coagulated blood that had collected around the seat. It was occupied by a man whose arms had been nailed to those of the chair. His breathing was ragged and came at intermittent intervals; his chin rested against the surface of his chest.

Rhuzyo stood on the cot, feeling the floor through the thin mattress as he peered through the blinds he had separated with his fingers, checking to see if anything seemed out of the ordinary. The darkness within the apartment was meant to disorient the chair's occupant. Long ago, Rhuzyo had been taught to rely on his senses to tell the time, which altogether removed the need for a watch.

Turning his back to the light; to the city; he stepped off of the cot and bent over, retrieving a bag that had been concealed beneath the sheets. Rummaging through the sack with efficient ease in the lack of light, Rhuzyo withdrew the object he had been seeking before striding into the center of the apartment and turn the bulb minutely, which would in turn illuminate the immediate area.

The bulb erupted to life with an audible flicker, revealing a pair of pliers held within Rhuzyo's hand and the fresh trail of tears that ran down the seated man's cheeks as he knew what was to come; unbearable pain; yet did not know how it would manifest itself. He lacked the strength to turn his face towards his captor.

"P-Please... Why are y-you d-doing this?" The man stammered his words while his body writhed with the pain of his previous sessions.

At this, Rhuzyo, the Rifle, snickered and kneeled before the man, looking up into the bloodshot eyes with an expression of utter disgust. "To be honest," he spoke, in a clear and deliberate voice that rang with a slight Russian accent, "The beatings and the arms were for fun. I despise you and your ilk, who prey upon others. But, now, I shall break you and gather the information I originally took you for."

The Russian's words had caused the man to begin to whimper and wretch, nearly vomiting over himself. The Russian had already made Vincenzo soil himself. If only he had been in a larger group... Somehow, this Russian bastard had killed seven of his men, in broad daylight, with nothing more than a Ka-Bar while his men were packing some of the newest heat, like explosive rounds for their Berettas that would leave nothing but a man's shoes, scorched and caked in blood.

"We begin." In the instant that the words left Rhuzyo's lips, the Russian had grasped the man's wrist with his free hand while closing the pliers's tip with Vincenzo's nail caught between the dulled metal. In a slow, steady manner, Rhuzyo began to pull, tearing the fingernail free over a matter of minutes, making his victim feel the excruciating pain as the tender flesh was forcibly split in twine, reddened strands of nerves flailing in the air as he finished removing the first nail, waving it before the young Italian's face before discarding it over his shoulder with a flick of a hand.

Vincenzo fought the urge to yell, knowing that if he opened his mouth, he would empty his stomach's contents onto himself. He could feel the lump rise in his throat and the taste of bile flitting across his tongue as he was blinded with pain. His strength left him, his mind reeling from what was being done to his body. Moments of agonizing pain passed, time becoming one long blur as he looked up to take in every detail of the man, so that if he lived, he would exact his revenge.

Rhuzyo was great in stature, the top of his head level with the doorsill. He had shoulder-length hair that had once been black but now had wide streaks of gray and white running through it. His facial features were blocked by the hair he did not bother to tie back and the beard that covered his prominent jaw. The only distinguishing feature Vincenzo could make out was a scar that cut into his beard, running vertically over his cheek and down towards his throat. Even though the room was freezing, he wore no shirt, his skin marred by countless scars and burns that could not fully mask the well-toned physique that held the grace of any predatory animal. Thick black slacks were kept in place by a belt of faded leather, the hem brushing against the tip at one instant or getting caught beneath the heel of his boots the next. He appeared to be in his late 40s, but he moved and killed like a sociopathic teen.

Vincenzo felt blood flowing from the torn flesh where his nail had been just minutes ago, wishing for both his death and his life so that he could see this son of a bitch go down.

"Now, this may hurt...."

The words seemed to form before him, emblazoned in neon in front of his eyes, before he felt his consciousness slipping as a wave of pain washed over him.

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