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Mar 17, 2013 20:47:17 GMT -8
Post by kottur on Mar 17, 2013 20:47:17 GMT -8
[The following email transcripts have been pulled, and are available to anyone with the appropriate clearance]
2:05 PM August 31st, 2012 To: malsigurdsson@aegircommunications.com From: peteroxford@newtonandbrown.com Subject: Your trip
Heard you were going on a little business trip. Hopefully you’ve been practicing your Russian!
Peter Oxford Law Offices of Newton and Brown Legal Advisor [Redacted] -------------------- 2:15 PM August 31st, 2012 To: peteroxford@newtonandbrown.com From: malsigurdsson@aegircommunications.com Subject: Re: Your trip
Yeah, how the hell did you hear about that?
Anyway, I’m not exactly thrilled about it. No idea why they’re choosing me, of all people, to go on this. Reasoning with the Church-Goers has never been a strength of mine. I don’t even speak Russian that well! Oh well, at least it will only be a day. Not even going to request the time off from work.
Malcolm Sigurdsson AEgir Communications, PR Representative [Redacted] -------------------- 2:17 PM August 31st 2012 To: malsigurdsson@aegircommunications.com From: peteroxford@newtonandbrown.com Subject: Re: Re: Your trip
You know I have my ways, Mal.
AEgir’s not that strict on you, then? I always said you have it too easy. Well, best of luck out there. Call me if you need backup.
Peter Oxford Law Offices of Newton and Brown Legal Advisor [Redacted] -------------------- 11:32 AM October 1st 2012 To: peteroxford@newtonandbrown.com From: [Redacted] Subject: [Redacted]
We’ve recently received news about the whereabouts of Kottur. Please report to [Redacted] -------------------- 7:00 PM December 24th 2012 To: gretchinsigurdsson1@freemail.com From: peteroxford@newtonabdbrown.com Subject: Re: Mal
Hello, Gretchin. Nice to hear from you again.
I’m sorry to say there’s still no leads on finding your son. I’ve been constantly talking with officials, but there’s still no lead on where he is. He didn’t tell any of his coworkers, and none of his neighbors have seen him since he disappeared. I know you may not want to hear this, but I think it’s time to start expecting the worse.
I know that’s devastating to even think about, I find myself going to his apartment now and then, just hoping he’d be there. But should you ever need anything, I’m always here.
Peter Oxford Law Offices of Newton and Brown Legal Advisor [Redacted] -------------------- 9:50 PM March 17th To: peteroxford@newtonandbrown.com From: [Redacted] Subject: [Redacted]
Kottur just used his phone. An outgoing call to Aegir’s company line. We’ve traced him to just outside Aleksin. Do you want to extract?
[Note: A response was never sent.]
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Mar 20, 2013 12:10:04 GMT -8
Post by kottur on Mar 20, 2013 12:10:04 GMT -8
Despite living in the city his whole life, Malcolm never stopped appreciating the complex explosion of life and character New York had to offer. Tall buildings, angry cab drivers, and scores of people flew by the outside of the town car’s tinted windows. The back seat was quite comfortable, with its cushy leather seats and perfect temperature. In fact, the only thing that was unpleasant about the ride was the man sitting next to him.
The tall, bespectacled man was running a hand through his styled black hair. Peter Oxford was a classmate of Malcolm’s at NYU. After college, while Mal struggled to find a stable job, Peter went to Harvard Law, and soon after graduating found a job at a well-known law firm. Purely for appearances; Oxford had never worked a day in his life. He came from a very wealthy family, studying at prestigious private schools and jetting off to different private islands during the summer. Mal was sure the only reason Peter went to NYU, and not Harvard or Yale, was his love for New York’s night life. A playboy to his very core, Oxford was happiest surrounded by a bunch of young, scantily clad 20 somethings. That, and in the field. Which would explain the eager look on his face.
“Remind me again, what we’re doing?” Mal asked, pulling out his sidearm.
Peter looked over with a grin.
“All your focus on that new job or your’s, eh? Agent went AWOL. Just stopped showing up. But further investigation shows that he plans on...blabbing. To whom or what about, we don’t know. But you can imagine our superiors don’t want to risk anything, so we’re to bring him in. After that, I don’t know. Maybe the magic types will erase his memory, I don’t pretend to know how it works. Speaking of, we’ll never catch him if you don’t speed up!”
The driver muttered a quick apology (and what sounded like a string of four-letter words) and sped up. Mal did his routine checks as Peter sipped from a glass of expensive scotch. He still didn’t know where they were going, but he could make some guesses just by looking out the window. They were leaving Manhattan, crossing over into Brooklyn. By the looks of it, they were heading into a low-income part of the burrow. Soon, the car came to a stop in front of a worn-down apartment building. He took Peter’s lead, hiding the sidearm and exiting out to the sidewalk. Right off the bat he could tell they were sticking out; two clean-cut men in three-piece suits stepping out of an expensive black town car. Ignoring the looks, Peter walked up to the front door and rang the buzzer of a random apartment number. A woman’s voice answered.
“Who is it?”
“Hi, sorry to bother you! I just moved in and my girlfriend has my keys. Think you could buzz me in?” All agents had to be good liars, but Peter was able to do it almost frighteningly well. The door buzzed without another word from the woman, and the two stepped inside.
“And of course, his apartment has to be on the top floor.” Peter headed straight into the elevator, and soon they were lurching upwards.
They reached the agent’s (whose name Malcolm still didn’t know) door. Peter pressed himself against the wall adjacent to the door, and Mal did the same on the opposite side before reaching out to give the door three swift knocks. There was a series of clicks and clangs as a number of locks were undone. A pistol appeared through the doorway first, followed by a red-haired face that looked to his right. He barely had time to scream and aim at Peter before Mal pressed his own sidearm against the back of his head. “Don’t.”
They escorted the man into his own apartment, and Peter did a thorough job of tying him to a wooden chair. He gave the man a wicked smile. “Comfy? Watch him, Mal. I’m going to take a look around.”
Malcolm sat on the couch across from the man. The ginger was shaking, never once meeting his eyes. Every now and then, he would manage to blurt out a “Please don’t hurt me” or “I’m sorry” before succumbing to incoherent babbling. For a moment, Malcolm pitied the man, but did his best to wipe that from his mind. He had a job to do.
Peter returned, a stuffed manilla folder under his arm. “I’m not going to lie, Tim. This isn’t looking good. Too bad, you could have got quite a lot of cash for this folder.”
Tim started to tear up, violently shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to tell nobody, Peter! Honest! Just let me go and no one will know-” Peter smashed his silenced pistol across the man’s face as Mal looked on, confused. Know what?
“What’s in that folder, Peter?”
Peter shook his head, still giving Tim a look of utter contempt. “Sorry, Mal. That’s on a need-to-know basis. But still, the higher-ups are going to be very happy with this. There’s a lot of crucial information in here; info that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Things aren’t looking good for Tiny Tim here.” A grin spread across his face.
“ In fact, we might as well speed up the process.”
Before Mal had time to react, Peter extended his arm in one cold, swift motion and pulled the trigger. His weapon gave a loud click, and red mist sprayed onto the wall behind Tim as his head lulled to the side; his terrified expression still holding on his face.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck?!”
Peter cooley holstered his weapon, shrugging. “He would have just been put down once we took him back anyway. This way I don’t get piss stains on the leather.” He gave a disgusted nod to Tim’s damp trousers.
Mal stared wide-eyed at Tim’s body. He was no stranger to death, it was almost impossible to avoid in this business. But what Peter did was cold-hard execution, for something that could have been stealing a parking space as far as Mal knew. He stayed silent throughout the ride back to his apartment, but Peter called to him as he exited the car.
“Trust me, Mal. We did some good today.”
And with that, the car drove off. Mal stood for a moment, contemplating what he had just witnessed. He sighed as he turned to enter his building, wiping a bit of Tim off his jacket’s button.
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Mar 30, 2013 13:00:14 GMT -8
Post by kottur on Mar 30, 2013 13:00:14 GMT -8
The next month, Malcolm found himself in the comfortable back seat of town car. Although this time, to his great relief, Oxford wasn’t sitting beside him. Outside the window, instead of New York City, the Russian countryside sped by. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he was halfway across the world; his superiors were very vague. Something about Vampires, a meeting with Templars, and a number of other limited details that infuriated him. He sighed, flicking his cigarette out the window. He’d shake a few hands, flash a few smiles, and be back at AEgir before anyone realized he’d gone.
“Why we driving out here, man?” A voice with a very thick accent came from the front seat; the driver’s.
“Business.”
The driver laughed, turning to face the road. “I don’t know what kind of business gets done out here.”
He had a valid point, the backdrop didn’t exactly scream corporate. The hills seemed to go on forever, and there wasn’t a building to be found. It made sense for a hush-hush meeting between two secretive organizations, but the driver didn’t need to know about any of that.
“Reminds me of time I drove three American girls out to the country side. They give me five hundred dollars and tell me to ‘just dr-” He sentence was cut off. There was a loud crack and the driver side window shattered, a mist of blood being sprayed onto the windshield. The driver took his hand off the wheel to clench his throat, making a sickening noise as the car swerved out of control. Malcolm felt the car swerve as the driver panicked, and soon felt the sensation of the car rolling over. He held on for dear life for what felt like ages as he stomach went through a twists and turns before it skidded to a stop, upside down.
Malcolm groaned, his head was filled with an intense ringing as blood started to rush to it. He was upside down. He unbuckled, bracing for the fall that awaited him. He winced as he felt tiny shards of glass dig into his hands as he caught his fall.
“Hey...Hey buddy, you ok?” He leaned over into the driver’s seat. The man was not ok...His pale, lifeless body gaped in fright at the blood-spattered, cracked windshield. Out; he needed out. He pulled out his sidearm, clicking the safety off as he pushed the door open. He sprawled onto the road, making sure to stay low to keep the car between him and the shooter. He peaked over the top, trying to get a visual on something, anything. And then he felt something cold and metal press against the back of his head, accompanied by a gruff voice.
“What do we have here?”
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Mar 30, 2013 13:49:24 GMT -8
Post by kottur on Mar 30, 2013 13:49:24 GMT -8
“What do we have here?”
Malcolm snaped back into the moment, he was no longer outside the wrecked car from eight months ago. He was in a bare room in an Illuminati compound, starting at an official-looking man across the table. He pwas flipping through a file Mal could only assume was filled with information about him and his “extended leave” in Russia.
“So when you left off with Agent Miles’ interview, you had just been captured off the street. Is that right?”
Gun to his head. Walking, so much walking. More armed men, a sharp blow to the side of his head. Blackness.
“Yes sir.”
The man furrowed his brow. “Who exactly were they?”
“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t see a single flag or insignia the whole time I was there.”
“I see. After you came to, what then?”
“Well, what do we have here?”
He was on the ground; a cold, cement floor. Concrete walls on three sides, metal bars in the front. Armed men in front of the bars. Angry voices, laughing. Taunting.
“I awoke in a cell in some underground compound. I don’t know how far away it was from where I was taken.”
The man sighed, ashing a cigarette into a nearby tray. Malcolm looked down at his hands. They were “still callused and dirty. His whole body matched his hands. He hadn’t had a chance to clean himself up after his coworkers plucked him from Russia. His hair was longer and mangled, along with a scrappy beard that completed the look. His torso, still aching and rough, was covered with new scars and burns.
“So, can you give me an abridged version of what happened up until you escaped?”
Hanging. He was hanging. His arms tied together above him. Men entered the room, pushing something on a cart. Car battery. Shock, burns, whips. Day after day the same. Hunger, little food. More beatings, someone new. Fire and electricity emitting from their hands. Not normal mercs.
“They...tortured me, mostly. Never asked any questions, just spent the time causing as much pain as they could. There were bee-eaters among them, sir.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, a few were more...inventive in their ways.”
“Explains why they didn’t kill you. Maybe thought you’d ‘find a way back,’ eh?” He was being annoyingly friendly during all this, Malcolm thought. “So, your escape: how did you manage that?”
Water. When was the last time he had water? A guard was at his cell, spouting the usual taunts. He turned his back. One chance. He lunged, his skinnier arms could now fit through the bars. Wrap the arm around his neck, pull. Not much strength left, had to use it all. The guard struggled. Noises. Horrible choking noises. Silence.
“I was able to down a guard that got a little too close to the bars. I pulled the key off him, and once I got out, I grabbed his rifle. After that it’s all a blur, sir. The alarm was blaring and I couldn’t think straight. I sort of...wandered around the facility, trying to find my way out. When contact with the opposition was unavoidable, I dealt with them. Once I found the exit and made it topside. I ran...I’m not sure for how long. After a while, I was able to pick up my work’s corporate line, and called for help.”
“AEgir’s people extracted you, then?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, I still have some more questions...But I think you’d like to get home and clean yourself up. Why don’t we continue this interview next Friday?”
Malcolm nodded, standing up to shake the man’s hand. He left the room, only to have a hand clasp his shoulder.
“Malcolm!”
It was Peter Oxford, grinning in the same annoying way the interviewer conducted himself. He put his hands on Mal’s shoulders, giving him a look over. “You look like shit.”
“Mhm.”
“I know you’re on your way out, so I’ll be quick. It’s good to have you back...None of thought you’d make it back alive.” There was a weird flash in Oxford’s eyes, and Mal stared blankly at him for a moment.
“Thank you, Ox.”
And he left, feeling that sickening pit in his stomach that was so over-present in Russia.
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Mar 31, 2013 18:13:14 GMT -8
Post by kottur on Mar 31, 2013 18:13:14 GMT -8
In the weeks after his return, Mal showed little signs of any sort of trauma or backlash from the incident. He had cut his hair and shaved, and was often seen strolling around in his suits, flashing the usual grins. Occasionally, the odd twitch would show on his face, or his fingers would fidget and drum on whatever surface he was near. But for the most part, it was hard to imagine he endured what he had.
That isn't to say there weren't changes. The bar in his Midtown apartment was stocked a bit fuller than before, and his patience for annoying reporters seemed to be dwindling. Every once and a while, he could be seen at the firing range; familiarizing himself with weapons he barely held before. He now had a tendency to "zone out," as he would call it, often blanking in the middle of a conversation. Most of all, he went on more walks. Wandering around the likes of New York and London, ending up in sketchy, dirty pool halls.
He was in one at the moment, surrounded by some shifty London folk. He stared at the cue ball for a long moment in silence. But suddenly, to the surprise of the other patrons, he began to sing a low, mournful tune.
He was back in the dark, damp room in Russia. His arms were still hanging above him, his body ached from the "bit of fun" his captors had not two minutes ago. He was alone again. He was breaking.
He spit on the ground. No. Not like this. He lifted his head, his voice soon echoing through the halls.
"Goodnight, Irene Goodnight, Irene I'll see you in, my dreams."
((End.))
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Post by effinfitz on Apr 4, 2013 2:08:13 GMT -8
((Somehow managed to miss the last part all this time. Wierd. But! Awesome stuff! Write moar.))
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Apr 4, 2013 12:31:05 GMT -8
Post by sersi on Apr 4, 2013 12:31:05 GMT -8
((yus! I liked it!))
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