Post by Dr. Remus Micayle on Jan 26, 2014 1:27:23 GMT -5
Note: This particular RP is going to contain scenes of gore and human experimentation. I was inspired by a novel I've chanced upon in the last few weeks - Haunter by Charlee Jacob (spoiler: it's pretty fucked up). Other sources of 'motivation' arise from my real-life experience in my old job, where as a former journalist working in the crime beat, I come upon suicide victims and crime scenes quite regularly, and a comic book detective series by the name of Kindaichi Case Files that I've read many years ago. Not to mention I've kinda been in a bad mood the past weeks, which no doubt adds to the aggressiveness of the piece. So yeah, consider this a warning, just in case.
P.s: I'm not a lunatic on the loose, I promise. And also, if anyone feels that the graphic content is way above what is considered acceptable here on the boards, please feel free to comment on my feedback thread and I will tone it down in the future. If not, well... enjoy.
Potential threat detected.
- God (?gäd): capitalized; the supreme or ultimate reality: as the Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshipped as creator and ruler of the universe. Christian Science: the incorporeal divine Principle ruling over all as eternal Spirit, infinite Mind. A being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality. A person or thing of supreme value. A powerful ruler. Middle English, from Old English; akin to Old High German got god. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Potential solution found.
- Deicide (?d?-?-?s?d, ?d?-?-): The act of killing a divine being or a symbolic substitute of such a being. The killer or destroyer of a god. Ultimately from Latin deus god + -cidium, -cida -cide. First Known Use: 1577
Application of solution in progress.
Scene: The Pleven Mansion, Sopot, Plovdiv, Bulgaria (Wednesday, 2330hrs, 22nd January 2014)
The house stands beyond the Cadillac, silent and dark, rising from the top of the hill like a pasha's palace; it's chimneys, towers, gardens, and clerestories gilded in the beautiful dusk light of Sopot, Bulgaria.
Doctor Remus Micayle steps out of his rented vehicle, dressed impeccably in a bespoke made-to-measure satin suit, complete with Zegna loafers and gold cufflinks. He observes the mansion with an expressionless look on his face, before pushing the wrought iron bar gates. The mere view of the house filled him with various sensations; most pleasant, but some not so. It was a beautiful European compound in the grandest sense possible. The graveled driveway swept in a half-circle past a massive pair of fifteenth-century teak doors. The mansion itself was exquisite. A low abode structure; it was a work of sculptural art in itself. Situated at the very top of a mountain, it has sweeping views of the nearby hills, lights of town, and the thunderclouds threatening to cover the sky over the beautiful state of Plovdiv.
This place is beautiful, but he would not have been here if it had not been for his old friend, Professor Edward Jones-Williams. The old man had contacted him suddenly after his match on Slam last week and demanded that they meet at his holiday villa in Bulgaria. Apparently, there was something incredibly important that the man wanted to show him. Micayle shakes his head. This is typical jackassery from the Welshman, never taking no for an answer. He actually has no idea what he's in Bulgaria for.
Micayle steps forward and grabs his handphone, ready to dial the man, when he suddenly spots Jones-Williams's car parked in front of the mansion.
Micayle forced his way through a hedge of trimmed roses, tiptoed through a flowerbed and peers into a window. A small smile breaks as he spies the grizzled old man that he's so fond of over the years. At that same moment, the elderly scientist looks up, and spots The Scientist. He raises a hand in greeting.
Professor Edward Jones-Williams: Lad! Come in!
Doctor Remus Micayle: This is...
A bestial grin on his face, the wizened senior nods.
Jones-Williams: My holiday villa. But come, before we go into any further details, lets get acquainted this place. Come in through the window!
Micayle rolls his eyes at the absurdity of the situation, before forcing his way through the glass. Miraculously, he manages to squeeze in and enter the room. Ever the excited individual, Jones-Williams drags him by the arm and down a corridor even before he could get a second to compose himself. Down they go past doors and more rooms, turning and going down so many stairs that even the normally alert Doctor starts to get a little dizzy. Finally, they stop in front of a closed door.
Jones-Williams: Lad, I have something wonderful to show you. Are you ready?
Micayle merely nods, still winded from the sudden change in environment.
His face beaming in pure delight, the elder scientist kicks open the door, and the duo is temporarily blinded by the sheer whiteness of the entire room that's no exposed. As their eyesight finally adjust to the light, Micayle is finally able to see. And what he sees is wonderful indeed.
A pure white room lies before him. Near the ceiling are numerous levers and gadgets, while scientific machines of every kind of size fill the floor. It is obviously a laboratory of some sort, but it is definitely one that's exemplified to a million degrees in terms of awesomeness. From particle accelerators, supercomputers, casting ore refining apparatus to your regular Bunsen burners, the facility has everything a man of science could ever want for in life. And how fitting that a man such as Jones-Williams owns it. Yet most prominently, are three large cages with curtains draped over them in the middle of the entire room, hiding whatever they are holding. Micayle walks near one and moves to lift the drape, but Jones-Williams stop him.
Jones-Williams: Allow me.
He flips the curtain of the leftmost cage up and gestures at it violently. Micayle lets out an involuntary exclamation of excitement at the revelation. Expecting a lab animal, he is shocked to find a young girl unconscious in the pen, stripped as naked as the day as she was born. Upon closer observation, she is no more than twenty years of age. Her blonde hair, so lush and full of life, covers her entire face, leaving her at least a sense of anonymity despite the coarseness of her dress. Micayle glances back at Jones-Williams, but doesn't speak a word, waiting for him to justify the situation. The elder notes his questioning stare, but simply shakes his head, signaling for him to continue walking with him.
Micayle merely shakes his head in bemusement. It's so like his former colleague to do such a thing. They say that the brightest and the best are always eccentric, and this is merely just another demonstration of his quirks. Jones-Williams had never wished him any harm before, so despite the oddity of the affair, Micayle decides to just play along.
The pair continues walking about a dozen more steps, before reaching the middle cage. Similar to the first one, it is covered with a drape. Jones-Williams hobbles to the cage and lifts the screen up, revealing yet another unconscious figure. This time round, it is a man whom Micayle approximates to be about thirty-five in age. He too is in an identical state of undress, and seems to be rather well fed, judging by the bulge in his belly. His features are rather average; nothing strikes as particularly ugly or handsome. Micayle once again pointedly stares at his old friend, but receives nothing more than a questioning hand to continue.
The last cage is situated at the very end of the room. Now braced for another naked figure being held captive, Micayle is not disappointed to find that he is right. The third subject is in his fifties, and appears to be extremely strong. Despite his age, all of his muscles are very well developed, and judging by the number of scars he has accumulated on his body, he seems to have endured hard labor of some sorts in his earlier years. Now, at this cage, Jones-Williams stops, and turns to face Micayle. Obviously charmed by the entire scenario, Micayle waits for him to speak.
Jones-Williams: So. I suppose you must be wondering what on earth is going on, am I right Remus?
Micayle: Indeed. But I also presume this is the reason you invited me to your holiday villa in Bulgaria out of the blue. But I do have to ask... why human experimentation?
The older scientist nods.
Jones-Williams: Look Remus, you know that I have always been fond of you. Ever since you were a student at Stanford, I knew that you had potential to make it big in the world of science. Though you may not have taken the orthodox path after graduating, you have actually made several contributions that I feel have impacted the academic world greatly. And to be perfectly frank with you, I am a huge supporter of your efforts to spread the word to the rest of the world, though I must admit that several of your attempts are not what you call good PR.
He goes on.
Jones-Williams: But nonetheless, you are a good brain. I had actually prepared this laboratory a few months ago, ready to pass it on to you when I pass on sometime in the near future. It contains a state-of-the-art computer AI system, sophisticated medical equipment, and probably every single scientific apparatus you can ever think of. In the left corner, I have a CAT scanner. The right, an X-ray machine. Just next to it, instruments of every shape and size, ready to serve a scientist's every need. The list goes on and on. And make no mistake, dear friend. I am going to upgrade it constantly. In short, this place is a scientist's wet dream, for lack of a better term.
He chuckles at his own joke.
Jones-Williams: As I said, I was prepared to hand it over to you WHEN I die. I am an old man, Remus, and I am fully aware of my own mortality. You are intelligent, and can benefit off of this set-up I painstakingly created. But last week, as I turned in to Slam, something happened that changed my mind.
His jovial twinkle darkens, as his corpulent jowls jiggle with the effort of speaking.
Jones-Williams: I saw that Benjamin Atreyu stripling attack you. I know you are pretty much unhurt, apart from a blow to your ego. But I saw things differently. He is an elitist, and thinks himself to be better than the rest of humanity. I mean, did you see the words on his pants? The 'God-Given Greatness'? HA! All great minds know that God is a lie. That man is a bombastic English-majoring joke, and I will not stand to see my favourite pupil be treated that way by a mere court jester.
Micayle:...
Jones-Williams coughs slightly, and gestures a hand out at the laboratory.
Jones-Williams: That was when I decided; I'll do things differently! Instead of waiting for me to enter the grave - that could take years - and deprive you of the opportunity to conduct research of a level that humanity has never seen before, why not give you the chance to do it now? There's no time like the present, is it not? So, Remus, take a good look around the entire facility, because it is yours from today onwards.
The Scientist doesn't immediately respond, still trying to grasp the entire state of affairs. Jones-Williams catches on to that, and sniggers gently.
Jones-Williams: Lad?
Shaken, Micayle regains his bearings and immediately walk over to embrace the older man. The duo hug for a while, before stepping back.
Micayle: I cannot describe this feeling with words, Edward. All I can say is... thank you.
Jones-Williams: I understand, but do not fret there old friend. I don't ask for payment or thanks. All I ask for is for you to redeem your pride that you lost last week when Benjamin Atreyu ambushed you, and thrash him in the name of all that we stand for. Which actually reminds me... my second reason why I want you to have this place.
The elder points at the three cages placed around the ground.
Jones-Williams: Those three human beings you saw earlier are subjects for your next experiment. Consider it a task from me. Seeing that you are facing the God-Given Greatness in your next match, and you are at the disadvantage, I want you to analyse those three creatures I procured for you. They are all professionals in their respective fields, and not just any Tom, Dick, or Harry either. They are like your opponent - the best of the best.
The Perspicacious One suddenly takes in a deep breath of understanding.
Micayle: I... see.
Jones-Williams: I'm glad you finally see the light. So now, as I was saying. Analyze those three beings and see what they have in common. That common factor must no doubt be the substance that Atreyu possess as well. I want you to single that out, and make sure you know it inside out. Knowing how to counter it, defeat it, and use it to your own advantage is the key to defeating your opponent. Use the lab to your fancy; I'm sure you'll find everything you need here.
Both men are now smirking at one another.
Micayle: Not an issue at all, dear friend. Just one last question. What's their exact biological data? I don't suppose you have it, do you...?
Jones-Williams seems amused all of a sudden.
Jones-Williams: Heh heh. Why not give m-- I mean YOUR new AI system a try? Just speak out louder than normal, and address the system by the codename Computer. I'll do the honors for the first time round, eh?
Still stunned, Micayle can only nod in agreement. His eyes twinkling in delight, Jones-Williams starts to clear his throat before bellowing out loud.
Jones-Williams: Computer! Please introduce the three Subjects being held in the cage please!
A clear female voice suddenly resonates out from seemingly out of nowhere. Looking about in wonder, Micayle tries his best to spot where the voice is coming from, but fails to do so. A spotlight falls upon the cage containing the girl.
Computer: Subject One. Erina Putinasky. Nineteen years of age. Blood type, A+. Height, five feet five. Weight, one hundred and twenty pounds. Currently an uneven bars gymnast practicing at Sofia University. Won eighteen medals over the past three years.
So... an award-winning gymnast. Physical excellence combined with youthful beauty. The spotlight switches off, and another lights up over the middle cage.
Computer: Subject Two. Datuk Bryannz. Thirty-four years of age. Blood type, O. Height, five feet seven. Weight, one hundred and eighty pounds. Currently a multi-level marketing salesman at GBC Inc. Tripled his initial investment of one million dollars in two months, and created a pyramid going nine levels deep.
Ahh... a business fox. No doubt he'll be filled with secret on how to get ahead with life. Finally, the light switches over to the cage where the muscular bear of a man is held.
Computer: Subject Three. Vince Bhatorov. Fifty-two years of age. Blood type, A. Height, six feet three. Weight, two hundred and seventy-five pounds. A former world heavyweight champion of Bulgaria in boxing. Former number one for eight months straight.
Micayle nods approvingly. His mentor has chosen well on all three accounts. The man of the moment clears his throat to garner his disciple's attention back.
Jones-Williams: Now, I must remind you that this is highly illegal. Bulgaria might not have the same human rights laws as we do back in America, but abduction and human experimentation are still frowned upon here. I've done my utmost best to ensure that each of them has solid alibis. From school camps to company retreats to a retirement sabbatical, I've pulled some strings and garnered the paperwork. No one will suspect a thing when three big names in their respective fields go missing overnight.
Micayle taps his foot in contemplation.
Jones-Williams: I understand that your analysis might get a little... messy, but truth be told, please try to avoid unnecessary harm to them. We may be conducting an act that's slightly unethical, but it is for a better cause. If we were to go too far, we are no better than the Nazis back in World War Two. What genuinely was a noble cause at first mutated into a frightening nightmare of suffering and torment for the concentration camp inhabitants.
Jones-Williams walks closer to Micayle, before clasping a wrinkled hand on his shoulder.
Jones-Williams: But I know you are a good man who can control the balance between power and responsibility. These three subjects over here are in your hands now. Good luck in your research Remus, I'll see you soon in America.
His simpering face gleamed with genuine pride and affection for his former student for a moment, before the elder slowly limps out of the dungeon. Micayle raises a hand in farewell, as he stands away from his new captives in contemplation. He bows his head in deep thought, thinking of the professor's parting words, before turning back to face the three new subjects. A sinister expression comes over his handsome face, as his eyes run over the unfortunate trio. From the young girl at the peak of her beauty, to the eloquent speaker that is the salesman, to a former fighting champion, his mentor had chosen well. All three had the special quality that separates them from the rest, and now, given the opportunity, it's up to him to find out exactly what is it that makes them so... impressive.
Maybe he should start with the girl first. Her body is the youngest and perhaps the fittest of the three. Quality genes would be found easily, as compared to the other two.
But the MLM salesman seems like a good pick too. Being shrewd and cunning is a mental trait that not everyone will have. It would be intriguing to find out what makes a man like him tick.
Even so, the boxer holds a certain charm for him. As a professional fighter, he is made of the same material as Micayle himself. Knowing what constitutes a champion would definitely help him in the squared circle back in the WCF as well.
Three choices, so many windows of opportunity, so little time...
This should be fun.
His cold eyes gleaming, Micayle picks up a lab coat from a nearby table and starts to don it. Raising his voice for the automated system to detect his next set of instructions, the Doctor states loudly.
Micayle: Computer! Prepare the examination tables!
Salesman: ARGHHHH! ARGHHHHH! ARGHHHH!
Micayle: Oh shut it, will you. You are ruining my mojo.
It's easier said than done. After all, the Scientist is not the one who's being strapped to an operating table, stomach cut open and having his internal organs scrutinized and poked mercilessly by surgical instruments while conscious. The salesman, having woken into a world of pain, is screaming his head off, while Doctor Micayle stands about him and rummages with his internal workings. It would have been almost comical, except that it's not. Blood is staining the clothes of both men, and it is incredibly apparent that this 'operation' is not conducted with anesthesia of any sorts at all.
Micayle: Is this the special gland...?
His tongue stuck out in concentration, Micayle lifts up and PUTS his entire hand into the open stomach of the salesman. Ignoring the continued screams of the man, he clutches his fist and pulls. He pulls and pulls, not relenting until he emerges with a bloody pulp. He opens his hand and takes a good long stare at it.
Micayle: Hmm. Visually, this stomach is no different from any other.
He flips it about to examine the other side.
Micayle: Nope. This m--
The Scientist stops mid-sentence to glance at the screaming salesman. His eyebrow twitching with annoyance at his screams, Micayle delivers a hard slap to the face of the man. The yells of pain fail to stop, so he has no choice but to gag him. Taking a cursory glance around the laboratory, Micayle spots a pile of waste paper on a nearby table. Without so much as another word, he crumples up a sheet and stuffs it into the gaping mouth of the salesman. The moans don't stop, but they are muted, and apparently quite satisfactory to the Doctor.
Micayle: Better.
He continues to rummage with the open wound. Finally, after several failed attempts at peering into the gaping laceration, Micayle grabs both sides of the cut, and PULLS the stomach apart. The groans of pain go up in volume again, but he is not letting up. Blood is pouring out like champagne at a wedding, until finally, the stomach cut expands to the size of a crater. Contended with his work, Micayle makes no hesitation to plunge his dirty hand back into the salesman's stomach. Squinting his eyes in an effort to find the proper organ, Micayle yet again brutalizes the tender insides of the man. His fingers brushing against the sanguinary innards of the victim, he leans so far into the open stomach that his ENTIRE forearm is now inside a live and conscious man. Or he would have been...
: He's dead. Just like the girl.
A soft voice stops Micayle in his work. He looks up in mild surprise, and sees the grizzled old man, awake and tied up onto his own operating table. Following suit, Micayle looks up at the salesman and comes to the jarring realization that he has indeed been forearm-deep in a carcass. Grunting in annoyance, he pulls his limb out with a stomach-turning splooch. Micayle then walks towards a nearby sink, dripping a trail of crimson behind him as he makes the effort to wash his hands off the gore that they are covered copiously with.
Micayle: Yes, he is. Sad fact, actually.
His eyes are fixated on the colour currently running down the sink. No matter how hard he seems to scrub, it doesn't seem to actually work. Sniffing in indignation, Micayle turns back to the old man, eyes narrowed as he walks towards him. To his credit, the boxer didn't even flinch.
Boxer: You killed two people. Two innocent lives. How can you do this?
Micayle stands in front of him, no expression on his face at all. The man's voice starts to crack as he continues to talk.
Boxer: I was awake when you... you killed that girl. She was so young, so young! Why are you doing such a thing, you animal! You promised her freedom if she could survive. And you... you sliced her stomach out! Like you did to that poor man! Why! WHY!?
Micayle breaks eye contact to look to his left. The man follows suit. Their eyes lie upon a pink body bag, half-covered in red. He then returns his glance to the former boxer, who is beside himself right now.
Boxer: Why... why are you doing this to us!?
The fear in his voice is evident, if nothing else. The Scientist appraises him coolly before responding. His left hand, meanwhile, is reaching into his apron to withdraw a small bloodstained knife. No doubt it's the tool that has cut open the duo before.
Micayle: You should ask yourself that. What is it that makes you special?
The man is perplexed, and more than a little bit angry.
Boxer: What!? I'm a normal man, I have a wife and kids, I have a job, I love them, and I real--
Micayle interrupts him with a careless wave of the dagger. A few droplets of plasma fly off the blade and splatter the man, causing him to wince in distaste.
Micayle: Are you sure, Vince Bhatorov? From what I understand, you were a former heavyweight boxer. You were the most dominating fighter in your era, even managing to craft a career in an era when brutality was spurned in favor of the arts. Your nickname... the "God-Given Greatness"? I respect that.
He walks closer to the man. Up close, signs of his old career are even more prominent. Numerous scores of small scars are on his forehead, and his bulging proboscis of a nose looks almost as if it has been broken before. Micayle brings the bloody knife up close to the man's throat and holds it there. A tiny bead of sweat drips down from his forehead.
Boxer: Fuck you. If you respect me so much, you wouldn't have abducted me. Or actually, any of us. And how the hell do you know my name?
Micayle chuckles in mirth. He presses the cold edge of the dagger into the flesh, drawing fresh blood and evoking a small cry of agony from the man.
Micayle: On the contrary actually, dear celebrity. It's because I respect your... excellence so much, that I decided to involve you in my project here. You see, unlike what you might be thinking right now, I am a respectable man. I am a humble scientist wanting to find out why certain people excel in fields while other mere mortals fail. It is exactly the fact that you are king of the Bulgarian boxing field that I decided to add you into this research pool.
The Scientist grabs the boxer's face in one hand and squeezes his cheeks together, while holding his knife pressed against his neck. He leans in so close that they are almost touching noses, before whispering in a soft tone.
Micayle: I would really appreciate your help, Mister Vince. I don't like causing pain, but sadly, in order to find out the truth... sometimes pain is inevitable. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But science needs to prevail. It is after all, the only way I can find out the true secret to greatness. If you survive this, I'll bring you out for lunch one day. On my word as a great man... and an American citizen.
Boxer: Bullshit, I d-- URGH! ARGH! ARGHHHHH!!!
The grizzled middle-aged man starts to speak, but as he does, Micayle plunges his dagger deep into the stomach of the retired boxer, digging it in just where the organ meets the small intestines. The man yells in agony, but there's no stopping the Doctor. His hands are like steel, resisting the body jerks of the bound boxer. A pool of red slowly pours down his hand, as the man gasps for breath, trying to deal with the sudden pain.
Micayle: You've survived concussion-inducing blows.
He pulls the dagger an inch to the right. Tears start to form in the man's eyes.
Micayle: Numerous brain-damaging attacks.
Yet another inch. A tear is streaming down his right cheek right now.
Micayle: Body blows that could have paralyzed you for life.
One more inch. Oh, now there's a tear going down his left cheek.
Micayle: All I ask for you is to survive this one. Disembowelment.
As the Scientist finishes the last word, he pulls the knife to the right. Hard. The former boxer's intestines are now visible; almost like candy pouring out from a piñata come Thanksgiving.
Micayle: And I'll let you go.
He lifts the crimson blade up to his nose and sniffs at the blood. A metallic smell reaches him, and he nods approvingly. This is good blood. Chances are that he'll survive the attack. He glances at the man. His eyes are closed, with tears streaming down copiously from the pain. Almost as if he knew he was being watched, the former boxer opens his eyes, and stares Micayle down.
Boxer: You are an evil man. I will survive this, and get you. You hear me? I'll get you!!! Fuck you!
Micayle smiles. Fantastic. It seems that this old man has a lot more heart than he gave him credit for. Maybe he'll just survive what the teenager and the salesman didn't. He clears his throat, and exclaims loudly.
Micayle: Computer! Give me a body bag. I am going to place Subject Three in it and suspend him in vacuum! Give it an hour or so. I need to find out if he is truly someone who is blessed from the 'gods'.
He turns back to his newest victim and snaps his fingers.
Micayle: I'm going to prove to the world that there's no such thing as a gift from god, Vince. Everything is by cause and effect, and there must be something in you that cause you to behave the way you do. I will be facing someone who has that exact same thing. Believe me, I am going to find out just what that thing is, and extract it from you. If he has it, so must I. My friend said that if in science we go too far, we end up being war criminals. I disagree. Only by pushing limits, can we reach the next level.
Micayle glances at the other operating table, where the revolting carcass of the salesman still lies - almost like a lewd turkey ready for its delicious stuffing before entering the oven.
Micayle: And that's what I am going to do here on out, even if it means having to kill. Computer, please dispose of Subject Two. Thank you.
He turns away and walks off. The slow sobbing of the boxer merely adds to the atmosphere as two body bags are lowered down slowly from the skies. The computer is ready to do its master's bidding.
Micayle pushes himself down for yet another push-up, his breath coming out in short, abrupt gasps. Perspiration drips down like rainwater from his forehead, as his pectoral and triceps muscles contract in an effort to hoist his body weight up. As fit as he may be, physical exertion is still something that the human body cannot overcome through sheer willpower. Exhausted, he breathes in one last time, before summoning all of his strength to lower himself one last time.
Micayle: Five hundred!
Eliciting a yelp of fatigue, he leaps up from the ground in a sudden burst of speed. Micayle immediately tries to bring his breathing back down to a manageable level. Using his hands to wipe off the sheen of sweat now covering his entire face, Micayle takes the opportunity to glance at the digital clock positioned just to his right.
One AM. Should be about enough time to see if the boxer is any different from the other two subjects. If he is truly an extraordinary human specimen, he ought to be still conscious. If not, well...
Micayle: Computer! Bring Subject Three back down!
The buzzing of machinery working goes on for several long seconds, until a body-sized sandbag rotates and gets lowered to the ground via a nylon rope. Ominously, there seems to be no sign of movement or struggling from the man positioned in the bag.
Computer: Subject Three is now on the ground. Awaiting the next instruction.
Micayle walks over, his face taut with anticipation. He pauses beside the body bag for just a bit - almost as if he's petrified of what he is about to see - before unzipping it halfway to reveal the man within. His expression never changes, as his eyes scan up and down what was located inside the bag to observe any form of life. Although if any other man or woman were to lay eyes on what he's so studiously examining, they would most probably hurl up their dinner. And lunch. And maybe dinner.
What was once a man before has now mutated into an absolute monstrosity. The rancid smell of copper permeates the air as a pale, deformed skull protrudes prominently from the bag. Blood is trickling slowly down all orifices - the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, and a frightened look is clearly visible on the face of poor Vince Bhatorov. Loose strands of hair can be seen all over the bag; telltale signs that the victim has taken to struggling violently just before his demise. As Micayle gently lifts up the head of the dead man, a sickening plop can be heard as one of his deformed eyeballs, squeezed ever so tightly by the constrained space, drops out of his eye sockets.
A hard look comes across Micayle's face as he observes the mutilated corpse of the boxer, while trying his best to find even the slightest semblance of a pulse in his neck. Desperately probing his fingers into his neck, a slight murmur of surprise escapes the Doctor as the oxygen-deprived flesh gives in to the pressure and collapses, resulting in three of his digits being immersed in fresh blood; his pinkie finger even manages to get caught in the middle of two neck tendons, bathing him in even more gore. He peers down the body bag and gags a little at the smell; apparently the stomach wound has accelerated his death. From his limited vision, he could spot his intestines flopping out of the lesion. The corpse is practically swimming in it's own fluids; both plasma and fecal.
Sniffing derisively at the entire situation, Micayle pulls his fingers out of the new wound and studies it for a second. He wipes the gore off on to his pants, before zipping up the body bag and giving it a good hard kick. He states in a firm voice.
Micayle: Death... by suffocation. Hmph. Computer, take Subject Three away and store his body. That's all for now.
Once again, the whirling goes on, before the computerized female voice speaks again.
Computer: Affirmative.
The nylon rope comes down and hooks up the body bag, before slowly lifting it back into the air. Micayle watches the bag move to the back of the room before retreating to his comfortable recliner chair. He lets out a sigh as he reflects on the night.
Seems that there's nothing special about this particular 'God-Given Greatness' after all. Judging by the colour of his fear-stricken face and the contortions of his twisted upper body, he had died kicking and screaming, unable to escape the suffocating grasp of the vacuum despite his earlier claims. The boxer was just like any other human being. He may have been a champion in his life, but when it comes down to mortality, he's no different from the rest of homo sapiens.
Disappointing.
But it's all right. He'll examine the others later and see if their bodies contain any genes that might contain the chromosome that is the foundation of their superiority. Maybe he'll continue with the salesman, seeing that his stomach and liver have already been extracted from his body. Micayle has yet to examine his kidneys and intestines yet. Perhaps that's where he'll find a difference-maker, allowing him to conclude this test positively.
But that'll have to wait - maybe till the morning at least. Micayle has a blog post to write, lest a certain Hank Brown comes hounding once more. A small smile comes into view before the Scientist swivels away, intent on typing away at his computer.
www.wcfwrestling.com/doctor.remus.micayle/blog/post=3
A very pleasant hello to all ladies and gentlemen who will be reading this blog post. Just a quick update on my part here; I am currently in the lovely country of Bulgaria for a scientific experiment of an undisclosed nature. Suffice it to say that after my research has concluded, I will be able to prove without a shadow of a doubt that my lovely opponent on Sunday, Mister Benjamin Atreyu, is NOTHING but a fatuous, reprobate reptile that ought to be shot in the head by a pistol if anyone were to see him on the streets in the future.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
You must forgive me for my sudden outburst of anger. If you had caught the previous episode of Slam, be it live in the stands or at home, you would have seen the repulsive acts that Benjamin partook in in front of a sellout crowd. Earlier in the week, I had generously decided that Benjamin had been taken advantaged of, and decided to make things right by offering him a match at Payback, where we will square off like honorable knights for the WCF United States Championship. The resignation of our former boss Sarah Twilight renders the perpetual 24/7 Hardcore rules retired, and this would result in the two of us having a fair and just bout where truly only the best man will win. That was what I had in mind when I granted Benjamin that match last week.
But instead of crumbling to his knees and kissing my boots for this golden opportunity I've provided him, that renegade took advantage of my magnanimity and attacked me from behind! This is truly an outrage of the highest order if you ask me. Did the peasants in the Middle Ages dare ask for more when the earl of their land allowed them to keep 20% of their stock? Did the women of Ancient China dare to go against their husbands and society when asked to drown their unwanted infant daughters? And more importantly, is Benjamin allowed to commit such an atrocious act after being awarded just minutes ago with the gift of a lifetime? The same answer resonates loudly: NO! This should not be!
I have made an official complaint to WCF management regarding this barbaric and unprovoked act, and I will be looking forward to pursue this matter till I get the result I want. Though I have not gotten an official reply from the suits yet, things are looking up from my end. The honorable WCF commissioner Mister Eric Price responded to my plea on social media earlier in the week and promised to extract a fine of $750,000 from the vile, soul-sucking scum that is Benjamin Atreyu. This is great news, and I am happy that things have progressed thus far. Being the perpetual card opener that he is, this should provide enough of a sting to make sure that he learns his lesson never to belittle his superiors in the future. He may have to scrimp and save for a few years following this fine, but hey, sometimes in order to learn a lesson, one has to suffer first.
Speaking of which, the work Mister Price has done thus far impresses me greatly. Hot-blooded and willing to get his hands dirty in order to get things done, he reminds me a lot of myself in my younger days. Though I am by no means a great judge of business matters, I see great things in the political career of Mister Price - provided he continues with this great streak of management. This federation should be well managed in his hands, and I look forward to having closer ties with a respectable man such as himself in the near future.
Benjamin, if you are somehow reading this, let me promise you this. Your little act of defiance last week means absolutely nothing to me. You can mock the fact that I am holding a title that you have held years ago, and that your title credentials are far superior to mine. You can smirk at me being dragged away by security last Slam while you stand free in the ring. It does not matter to me one bit. Your actions last week simply mean one thing to me - you are frightened of The Scientist.
You are afraid of facing me in the ring, man against man. You are afraid to have me at my very best. You are afraid of fighting a wrestler that is smarter, stronger, and most importantly, is more dangerous than you are. Despite your constant denials to your S-PAC mates and to the rest of the world, deep down in your self-obsessed, pathetic heart, you know that if were to meet in the ring and square off for the title, you will not be able to beat me. And you know why? Because I am simply a superior specimen as compared to you. I'm the alpha of the pack, while you are the weak male standing back while I mount your mate in coitus and impregnate her in front of your sorry face. It happens everywhere in biology - gorillas, cuckold birds, even modern day pornography - and it sure as heck is about to happen to you. That is why you need to deliver cheap shot after cheap shot to one as great as myself. That is the only way you even have a semblance of a chance to win the championship.
The God-Given Greatness is no match for The Scientist, and everyone in the locker room knows it. Your wrestling moves and strikes have impact, I admit, but they lack that killing intensity that one desperately needs in order to succeed in this very business. You may have been United Champion before in the WCF, but take note, I was not here yet. If I was... well, you are pretty much where you are right now - stuck in purgatory with nowhere to go, while needing an unselfish champion to hand out title opportunities due to the fact that you cannot win anything on your own. I am as ready as I ever will be, and you will be the recipient of my skills come Payback. You will be in pain by the end of the night. And judging by the rest of your outlaw stable mates, they will be too. Jack UnHappy!? Jonny Fly? Seems that your brain is not the only disease-riddled one who thinks it can poke a sleeping dragon in the eye and get away with it.
But no matter. I am not concerned with Chelsea Armstrong or Waylon Cash. They may belong to the same collective rot as you, but they are not my opponents this Sunday. You are. And you are going to pay for all your sins. Read these words, Benjamin, and remember them. Because they are about to come true.
I will defeat you at Payback. I will pin you, force you to tap out, or knock you out cold. I don't care which way I emerge victorious, as long as your maggot-riddled carcass is strewn in the middle of the squared circle and I stand over it, my WCF United States title around my waist and my smile on my face. You will bow down to me in defeat and kiss my feet, just as you should have when I awarded you that match last Sunday.
I promise it. So here is my advice to you, one final well-meaning tip before I shed off my shirt and pull up my wrestling tights. Just give it up. You may think you will do many things in life, and I am not one to dissuade a man from his goals. Instead, let me tell you what you will not be doing. You will not walk out on your own accord. You will not walk out unscathed and unbroken. You will not walk out unbeaten in our debut match against once another. And most importantly...
You will not be walking out champion on Sunday. You will never be. You may think you are, but I assure you... you are not.
Idiot.
Anyways, I do apologies for not completing my Team Science lesson with CryBoy McEmo last week. Yet again, another lemon of a wrestler has the audacity to reject my leadership. But no worries there dear readers. As you might already have known, I took the initiative to change his mindset through the sheer power of science. I believe that I could have persuaded him to drop his self-harming, hair-flicking horrid habit away, but Benjamin interrupted me before I could do so. My attention was then diverted by what would be an abysmal act by the Benedict Arnold of a wrestler, leaving my work with CryBoy uncompleted.
I will have to pay the veteran loser another visit soon, but until then, I will have to beg you patriots out there to endure just a little bit more. Once my research in Bulgaria is completed (I ought to be done around Friday) and I defeat Benjamin on Sunday, I promise that I will revert my attention to the wrist-slasher. Emos are a stain on our glorious society, and I will not stand for this. Not on my head as United States champion, proud crusader of all things American.
I will see all of you on Sunday.
A salute to my third - and no doubt successful - title defense,
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
Micayle's hands are moving like Chopin on a piano. His fingers skimming across the keyboard like silk, he almost seems like a master at work. Eyes never leaving the monitor, Micayle is feverishly typing away at an almost inhumane speed. He types and types, until finally, he hits the send button with a satisfied THUMP.
He hates to admit it, but this blogging thing is something that he has really taken to as of late. Though not a thing he would have normally done, this way of communicating to the fans is really quite an ingenious idea. He would have to thank Hank Brown for that. No need for awkward press conferences, fan meetings, or any of that public relations nonsense. All one needs is a computer, and a couple of minutes a day, and he or she can connect with people all around the world with just the press of a button. Technology. Never fails to amaze him each time, really.
: Urgh...
The scientist's head whirls at that sudden sound. For the better part of an hour, Micayle had been typing ardently in silence, fully intent on sending his blog post to his website and sharing his views with the world. Now, despite being a man of science and being quite possibly the only living soul in the entire mansion, he is nonetheless slightly spooked by the sound. His ears are perked up, alert to listen out for another sound.
: Urgh... *cough*...
A delighted smile blooms on his face, as Micayle finally realizes where the noise is coming from. His eyes fall on the pink body bag where the teenager is lying in. Once motionless, the bag is now moving in a frenzy; almost as if the unconscious cadaver in it is somehow... still alive. The moans of pain are getting louder too, if one strains his or her ears. This is good news. Micayle quickly rubs the sleep from his eyes and stands up from his chair, slowly making his way over to where the bag is.
Teenage Gymnast: *cough*... hullo..? Help! *cough*...
His grin growing larger by the second, the Scientist quickly runs over to the struggling bag. His hands shaking in anticipation, he unzips the valise as fast as he can. It had been a long and difficult wait, but his planning has ensured that this would have eventually happened. I mean, come on. Three so-called superior specimens of the human race, and not one survived his initial purge? Rubbish. Tonight, Doctor Remus Micayle is about to find out what makes these top-quality individuals tick the way they do, and after doing so, he'll find out what it'll take to destroy them. That's the only way he'll get to defeat someone like Benjamin Atreyu. Getting into the head of a similar creature, and learning how to destroy him. Then, he'll use those same methods on Sunday and repeat the process - this time on the actual opponent.
The zip creaks open, and a soft sigh of relief escapes from the small opening. Not giving up, Micayle continues to rip apart the body bag. He hears a low moan of pain and cannot help but to let out a small laugh of his own. From where he is, he could practically smell the gymnast's genes. His mind is running at a million miles per second right now. Oh, the things he'll be able to find out after he's done with her!
Teenage Gymnast: *cough*...
Finally, he manages to open up the entire body bag. The body of a naked blood-soaked figure meets his glare, as she tumbles out on the ground, both hands clutching a three-inch wide stomach wound. His mouth starting to hurt from the wideness of his grin, Micayle stands aside, waiting for the gymnast to realise who had set her free. Her once blonde hair now streaked with the colour of her own vital fluids, it takes the gymnast several minutes before she gathers the strength to turn her body around. After much effort, she finally flips around, eyes wide in anticipation of greeting her 'savior'. Grunting in pain, she presses hard on her wound, determined to impede the flow of blood as best as she can. The fact that she can even wake from her induced coma is astonishing to say to least. There is a reason why samurais in feudal Japan choose to take their lives via such a method - it hurts.
Teenage Gymnast: Tha--
She stops in mid-sentence, as her eyes finally fall upon the imposing figure of Micayle.
Teenage Gymnast: AHHHHH!!!!
Instead, she starts screaming her head off, fully horrified at the extent of her captivity. The mere fact that she is able to make such a din despite being disemboweled impresses Micayle tremendously, and he nods his head in appreciation. There is nothing but sheer terror in her face, and Micayle revels in that thought. He looks to his right and notes the date.
It's just Thursday morning. Plenty of time in anyone's book. Three full days before he's even expected to be at Payback. That should give him enough time to make sure that he conducts a proper examination on the only survivor of the original trio.
Micayle: Computer! Suspend Subject One into the air; we will be conducting an organ examination immediately!
The whirling of chains start resonating around the room again, as the screams of the girl echo around the room sickeningly. There will be no escape for this worthy survivor, who despite her best efforts will assist him in dissecting the secret of the great. No elusion for her, and definitely none for Benjamin Atreyu come Sunday.
The experiment begins again.
P.s: I'm not a lunatic on the loose, I promise. And also, if anyone feels that the graphic content is way above what is considered acceptable here on the boards, please feel free to comment on my feedback thread and I will tone it down in the future. If not, well... enjoy.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Potential threat detected.
- God (?gäd): capitalized; the supreme or ultimate reality: as the Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshipped as creator and ruler of the universe. Christian Science: the incorporeal divine Principle ruling over all as eternal Spirit, infinite Mind. A being or object believed to have more than natural attributes and powers and to require human worship; specifically one controlling a particular aspect or part of reality. A person or thing of supreme value. A powerful ruler. Middle English, from Old English; akin to Old High German got god. First Known Use: before 12th century.
Potential solution found.
- Deicide (?d?-?-?s?d, ?d?-?-): The act of killing a divine being or a symbolic substitute of such a being. The killer or destroyer of a god. Ultimately from Latin deus god + -cidium, -cida -cide. First Known Use: 1577
Application of solution in progress.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene: The Pleven Mansion, Sopot, Plovdiv, Bulgaria (Wednesday, 2330hrs, 22nd January 2014)
The house stands beyond the Cadillac, silent and dark, rising from the top of the hill like a pasha's palace; it's chimneys, towers, gardens, and clerestories gilded in the beautiful dusk light of Sopot, Bulgaria.
Doctor Remus Micayle steps out of his rented vehicle, dressed impeccably in a bespoke made-to-measure satin suit, complete with Zegna loafers and gold cufflinks. He observes the mansion with an expressionless look on his face, before pushing the wrought iron bar gates. The mere view of the house filled him with various sensations; most pleasant, but some not so. It was a beautiful European compound in the grandest sense possible. The graveled driveway swept in a half-circle past a massive pair of fifteenth-century teak doors. The mansion itself was exquisite. A low abode structure; it was a work of sculptural art in itself. Situated at the very top of a mountain, it has sweeping views of the nearby hills, lights of town, and the thunderclouds threatening to cover the sky over the beautiful state of Plovdiv.
This place is beautiful, but he would not have been here if it had not been for his old friend, Professor Edward Jones-Williams. The old man had contacted him suddenly after his match on Slam last week and demanded that they meet at his holiday villa in Bulgaria. Apparently, there was something incredibly important that the man wanted to show him. Micayle shakes his head. This is typical jackassery from the Welshman, never taking no for an answer. He actually has no idea what he's in Bulgaria for.
Micayle steps forward and grabs his handphone, ready to dial the man, when he suddenly spots Jones-Williams's car parked in front of the mansion.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Micayle forced his way through a hedge of trimmed roses, tiptoed through a flowerbed and peers into a window. A small smile breaks as he spies the grizzled old man that he's so fond of over the years. At that same moment, the elderly scientist looks up, and spots The Scientist. He raises a hand in greeting.
Professor Edward Jones-Williams: Lad! Come in!
Doctor Remus Micayle: This is...
A bestial grin on his face, the wizened senior nods.
Jones-Williams: My holiday villa. But come, before we go into any further details, lets get acquainted this place. Come in through the window!
Micayle rolls his eyes at the absurdity of the situation, before forcing his way through the glass. Miraculously, he manages to squeeze in and enter the room. Ever the excited individual, Jones-Williams drags him by the arm and down a corridor even before he could get a second to compose himself. Down they go past doors and more rooms, turning and going down so many stairs that even the normally alert Doctor starts to get a little dizzy. Finally, they stop in front of a closed door.
Jones-Williams: Lad, I have something wonderful to show you. Are you ready?
Micayle merely nods, still winded from the sudden change in environment.
His face beaming in pure delight, the elder scientist kicks open the door, and the duo is temporarily blinded by the sheer whiteness of the entire room that's no exposed. As their eyesight finally adjust to the light, Micayle is finally able to see. And what he sees is wonderful indeed.
A pure white room lies before him. Near the ceiling are numerous levers and gadgets, while scientific machines of every kind of size fill the floor. It is obviously a laboratory of some sort, but it is definitely one that's exemplified to a million degrees in terms of awesomeness. From particle accelerators, supercomputers, casting ore refining apparatus to your regular Bunsen burners, the facility has everything a man of science could ever want for in life. And how fitting that a man such as Jones-Williams owns it. Yet most prominently, are three large cages with curtains draped over them in the middle of the entire room, hiding whatever they are holding. Micayle walks near one and moves to lift the drape, but Jones-Williams stop him.
Jones-Williams: Allow me.
He flips the curtain of the leftmost cage up and gestures at it violently. Micayle lets out an involuntary exclamation of excitement at the revelation. Expecting a lab animal, he is shocked to find a young girl unconscious in the pen, stripped as naked as the day as she was born. Upon closer observation, she is no more than twenty years of age. Her blonde hair, so lush and full of life, covers her entire face, leaving her at least a sense of anonymity despite the coarseness of her dress. Micayle glances back at Jones-Williams, but doesn't speak a word, waiting for him to justify the situation. The elder notes his questioning stare, but simply shakes his head, signaling for him to continue walking with him.
Micayle merely shakes his head in bemusement. It's so like his former colleague to do such a thing. They say that the brightest and the best are always eccentric, and this is merely just another demonstration of his quirks. Jones-Williams had never wished him any harm before, so despite the oddity of the affair, Micayle decides to just play along.
The pair continues walking about a dozen more steps, before reaching the middle cage. Similar to the first one, it is covered with a drape. Jones-Williams hobbles to the cage and lifts the screen up, revealing yet another unconscious figure. This time round, it is a man whom Micayle approximates to be about thirty-five in age. He too is in an identical state of undress, and seems to be rather well fed, judging by the bulge in his belly. His features are rather average; nothing strikes as particularly ugly or handsome. Micayle once again pointedly stares at his old friend, but receives nothing more than a questioning hand to continue.
The last cage is situated at the very end of the room. Now braced for another naked figure being held captive, Micayle is not disappointed to find that he is right. The third subject is in his fifties, and appears to be extremely strong. Despite his age, all of his muscles are very well developed, and judging by the number of scars he has accumulated on his body, he seems to have endured hard labor of some sorts in his earlier years. Now, at this cage, Jones-Williams stops, and turns to face Micayle. Obviously charmed by the entire scenario, Micayle waits for him to speak.
Jones-Williams: So. I suppose you must be wondering what on earth is going on, am I right Remus?
Micayle: Indeed. But I also presume this is the reason you invited me to your holiday villa in Bulgaria out of the blue. But I do have to ask... why human experimentation?
The older scientist nods.
Jones-Williams: Look Remus, you know that I have always been fond of you. Ever since you were a student at Stanford, I knew that you had potential to make it big in the world of science. Though you may not have taken the orthodox path after graduating, you have actually made several contributions that I feel have impacted the academic world greatly. And to be perfectly frank with you, I am a huge supporter of your efforts to spread the word to the rest of the world, though I must admit that several of your attempts are not what you call good PR.
He goes on.
Jones-Williams: But nonetheless, you are a good brain. I had actually prepared this laboratory a few months ago, ready to pass it on to you when I pass on sometime in the near future. It contains a state-of-the-art computer AI system, sophisticated medical equipment, and probably every single scientific apparatus you can ever think of. In the left corner, I have a CAT scanner. The right, an X-ray machine. Just next to it, instruments of every shape and size, ready to serve a scientist's every need. The list goes on and on. And make no mistake, dear friend. I am going to upgrade it constantly. In short, this place is a scientist's wet dream, for lack of a better term.
He chuckles at his own joke.
Jones-Williams: As I said, I was prepared to hand it over to you WHEN I die. I am an old man, Remus, and I am fully aware of my own mortality. You are intelligent, and can benefit off of this set-up I painstakingly created. But last week, as I turned in to Slam, something happened that changed my mind.
His jovial twinkle darkens, as his corpulent jowls jiggle with the effort of speaking.
Jones-Williams: I saw that Benjamin Atreyu stripling attack you. I know you are pretty much unhurt, apart from a blow to your ego. But I saw things differently. He is an elitist, and thinks himself to be better than the rest of humanity. I mean, did you see the words on his pants? The 'God-Given Greatness'? HA! All great minds know that God is a lie. That man is a bombastic English-majoring joke, and I will not stand to see my favourite pupil be treated that way by a mere court jester.
Micayle:...
Jones-Williams coughs slightly, and gestures a hand out at the laboratory.
Jones-Williams: That was when I decided; I'll do things differently! Instead of waiting for me to enter the grave - that could take years - and deprive you of the opportunity to conduct research of a level that humanity has never seen before, why not give you the chance to do it now? There's no time like the present, is it not? So, Remus, take a good look around the entire facility, because it is yours from today onwards.
The Scientist doesn't immediately respond, still trying to grasp the entire state of affairs. Jones-Williams catches on to that, and sniggers gently.
Jones-Williams: Lad?
Shaken, Micayle regains his bearings and immediately walk over to embrace the older man. The duo hug for a while, before stepping back.
Micayle: I cannot describe this feeling with words, Edward. All I can say is... thank you.
Jones-Williams: I understand, but do not fret there old friend. I don't ask for payment or thanks. All I ask for is for you to redeem your pride that you lost last week when Benjamin Atreyu ambushed you, and thrash him in the name of all that we stand for. Which actually reminds me... my second reason why I want you to have this place.
The elder points at the three cages placed around the ground.
Jones-Williams: Those three human beings you saw earlier are subjects for your next experiment. Consider it a task from me. Seeing that you are facing the God-Given Greatness in your next match, and you are at the disadvantage, I want you to analyse those three creatures I procured for you. They are all professionals in their respective fields, and not just any Tom, Dick, or Harry either. They are like your opponent - the best of the best.
The Perspicacious One suddenly takes in a deep breath of understanding.
Micayle: I... see.
Jones-Williams: I'm glad you finally see the light. So now, as I was saying. Analyze those three beings and see what they have in common. That common factor must no doubt be the substance that Atreyu possess as well. I want you to single that out, and make sure you know it inside out. Knowing how to counter it, defeat it, and use it to your own advantage is the key to defeating your opponent. Use the lab to your fancy; I'm sure you'll find everything you need here.
Both men are now smirking at one another.
Micayle: Not an issue at all, dear friend. Just one last question. What's their exact biological data? I don't suppose you have it, do you...?
Jones-Williams seems amused all of a sudden.
Jones-Williams: Heh heh. Why not give m-- I mean YOUR new AI system a try? Just speak out louder than normal, and address the system by the codename Computer. I'll do the honors for the first time round, eh?
Still stunned, Micayle can only nod in agreement. His eyes twinkling in delight, Jones-Williams starts to clear his throat before bellowing out loud.
Jones-Williams: Computer! Please introduce the three Subjects being held in the cage please!
A clear female voice suddenly resonates out from seemingly out of nowhere. Looking about in wonder, Micayle tries his best to spot where the voice is coming from, but fails to do so. A spotlight falls upon the cage containing the girl.
Computer: Subject One. Erina Putinasky. Nineteen years of age. Blood type, A+. Height, five feet five. Weight, one hundred and twenty pounds. Currently an uneven bars gymnast practicing at Sofia University. Won eighteen medals over the past three years.
So... an award-winning gymnast. Physical excellence combined with youthful beauty. The spotlight switches off, and another lights up over the middle cage.
Computer: Subject Two. Datuk Bryannz. Thirty-four years of age. Blood type, O. Height, five feet seven. Weight, one hundred and eighty pounds. Currently a multi-level marketing salesman at GBC Inc. Tripled his initial investment of one million dollars in two months, and created a pyramid going nine levels deep.
Ahh... a business fox. No doubt he'll be filled with secret on how to get ahead with life. Finally, the light switches over to the cage where the muscular bear of a man is held.
Computer: Subject Three. Vince Bhatorov. Fifty-two years of age. Blood type, A. Height, six feet three. Weight, two hundred and seventy-five pounds. A former world heavyweight champion of Bulgaria in boxing. Former number one for eight months straight.
Micayle nods approvingly. His mentor has chosen well on all three accounts. The man of the moment clears his throat to garner his disciple's attention back.
Jones-Williams: Now, I must remind you that this is highly illegal. Bulgaria might not have the same human rights laws as we do back in America, but abduction and human experimentation are still frowned upon here. I've done my utmost best to ensure that each of them has solid alibis. From school camps to company retreats to a retirement sabbatical, I've pulled some strings and garnered the paperwork. No one will suspect a thing when three big names in their respective fields go missing overnight.
Micayle taps his foot in contemplation.
Jones-Williams: I understand that your analysis might get a little... messy, but truth be told, please try to avoid unnecessary harm to them. We may be conducting an act that's slightly unethical, but it is for a better cause. If we were to go too far, we are no better than the Nazis back in World War Two. What genuinely was a noble cause at first mutated into a frightening nightmare of suffering and torment for the concentration camp inhabitants.
Jones-Williams walks closer to Micayle, before clasping a wrinkled hand on his shoulder.
Jones-Williams: But I know you are a good man who can control the balance between power and responsibility. These three subjects over here are in your hands now. Good luck in your research Remus, I'll see you soon in America.
His simpering face gleamed with genuine pride and affection for his former student for a moment, before the elder slowly limps out of the dungeon. Micayle raises a hand in farewell, as he stands away from his new captives in contemplation. He bows his head in deep thought, thinking of the professor's parting words, before turning back to face the three new subjects. A sinister expression comes over his handsome face, as his eyes run over the unfortunate trio. From the young girl at the peak of her beauty, to the eloquent speaker that is the salesman, to a former fighting champion, his mentor had chosen well. All three had the special quality that separates them from the rest, and now, given the opportunity, it's up to him to find out exactly what is it that makes them so... impressive.
Maybe he should start with the girl first. Her body is the youngest and perhaps the fittest of the three. Quality genes would be found easily, as compared to the other two.
But the MLM salesman seems like a good pick too. Being shrewd and cunning is a mental trait that not everyone will have. It would be intriguing to find out what makes a man like him tick.
Even so, the boxer holds a certain charm for him. As a professional fighter, he is made of the same material as Micayle himself. Knowing what constitutes a champion would definitely help him in the squared circle back in the WCF as well.
Three choices, so many windows of opportunity, so little time...
This should be fun.
His cold eyes gleaming, Micayle picks up a lab coat from a nearby table and starts to don it. Raising his voice for the automated system to detect his next set of instructions, the Doctor states loudly.
Micayle: Computer! Prepare the examination tables!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Scene: The Pleven Mansion, Sopot, Plovdiv, Bulgaria (Thursday, 0000hrs, 23rd January 2014)
Salesman: ARGHHHH! ARGHHHHH! ARGHHHH!
Micayle: Oh shut it, will you. You are ruining my mojo.
It's easier said than done. After all, the Scientist is not the one who's being strapped to an operating table, stomach cut open and having his internal organs scrutinized and poked mercilessly by surgical instruments while conscious. The salesman, having woken into a world of pain, is screaming his head off, while Doctor Micayle stands about him and rummages with his internal workings. It would have been almost comical, except that it's not. Blood is staining the clothes of both men, and it is incredibly apparent that this 'operation' is not conducted with anesthesia of any sorts at all.
Micayle: Is this the special gland...?
His tongue stuck out in concentration, Micayle lifts up and PUTS his entire hand into the open stomach of the salesman. Ignoring the continued screams of the man, he clutches his fist and pulls. He pulls and pulls, not relenting until he emerges with a bloody pulp. He opens his hand and takes a good long stare at it.
Micayle: Hmm. Visually, this stomach is no different from any other.
He flips it about to examine the other side.
Micayle: Nope. This m--
The Scientist stops mid-sentence to glance at the screaming salesman. His eyebrow twitching with annoyance at his screams, Micayle delivers a hard slap to the face of the man. The yells of pain fail to stop, so he has no choice but to gag him. Taking a cursory glance around the laboratory, Micayle spots a pile of waste paper on a nearby table. Without so much as another word, he crumples up a sheet and stuffs it into the gaping mouth of the salesman. The moans don't stop, but they are muted, and apparently quite satisfactory to the Doctor.
Micayle: Better.
He continues to rummage with the open wound. Finally, after several failed attempts at peering into the gaping laceration, Micayle grabs both sides of the cut, and PULLS the stomach apart. The groans of pain go up in volume again, but he is not letting up. Blood is pouring out like champagne at a wedding, until finally, the stomach cut expands to the size of a crater. Contended with his work, Micayle makes no hesitation to plunge his dirty hand back into the salesman's stomach. Squinting his eyes in an effort to find the proper organ, Micayle yet again brutalizes the tender insides of the man. His fingers brushing against the sanguinary innards of the victim, he leans so far into the open stomach that his ENTIRE forearm is now inside a live and conscious man. Or he would have been...
: He's dead. Just like the girl.A soft voice stops Micayle in his work. He looks up in mild surprise, and sees the grizzled old man, awake and tied up onto his own operating table. Following suit, Micayle looks up at the salesman and comes to the jarring realization that he has indeed been forearm-deep in a carcass. Grunting in annoyance, he pulls his limb out with a stomach-turning splooch. Micayle then walks towards a nearby sink, dripping a trail of crimson behind him as he makes the effort to wash his hands off the gore that they are covered copiously with.
Micayle: Yes, he is. Sad fact, actually.
His eyes are fixated on the colour currently running down the sink. No matter how hard he seems to scrub, it doesn't seem to actually work. Sniffing in indignation, Micayle turns back to the old man, eyes narrowed as he walks towards him. To his credit, the boxer didn't even flinch.
Boxer: You killed two people. Two innocent lives. How can you do this?
Micayle stands in front of him, no expression on his face at all. The man's voice starts to crack as he continues to talk.
Boxer: I was awake when you... you killed that girl. She was so young, so young! Why are you doing such a thing, you animal! You promised her freedom if she could survive. And you... you sliced her stomach out! Like you did to that poor man! Why! WHY!?
Micayle breaks eye contact to look to his left. The man follows suit. Their eyes lie upon a pink body bag, half-covered in red. He then returns his glance to the former boxer, who is beside himself right now.
Boxer: Why... why are you doing this to us!?
The fear in his voice is evident, if nothing else. The Scientist appraises him coolly before responding. His left hand, meanwhile, is reaching into his apron to withdraw a small bloodstained knife. No doubt it's the tool that has cut open the duo before.
Micayle: You should ask yourself that. What is it that makes you special?
The man is perplexed, and more than a little bit angry.
Boxer: What!? I'm a normal man, I have a wife and kids, I have a job, I love them, and I real--
Micayle interrupts him with a careless wave of the dagger. A few droplets of plasma fly off the blade and splatter the man, causing him to wince in distaste.
Micayle: Are you sure, Vince Bhatorov? From what I understand, you were a former heavyweight boxer. You were the most dominating fighter in your era, even managing to craft a career in an era when brutality was spurned in favor of the arts. Your nickname... the "God-Given Greatness"? I respect that.
He walks closer to the man. Up close, signs of his old career are even more prominent. Numerous scores of small scars are on his forehead, and his bulging proboscis of a nose looks almost as if it has been broken before. Micayle brings the bloody knife up close to the man's throat and holds it there. A tiny bead of sweat drips down from his forehead.
Boxer: Fuck you. If you respect me so much, you wouldn't have abducted me. Or actually, any of us. And how the hell do you know my name?
Micayle chuckles in mirth. He presses the cold edge of the dagger into the flesh, drawing fresh blood and evoking a small cry of agony from the man.
Micayle: On the contrary actually, dear celebrity. It's because I respect your... excellence so much, that I decided to involve you in my project here. You see, unlike what you might be thinking right now, I am a respectable man. I am a humble scientist wanting to find out why certain people excel in fields while other mere mortals fail. It is exactly the fact that you are king of the Bulgarian boxing field that I decided to add you into this research pool.
The Scientist grabs the boxer's face in one hand and squeezes his cheeks together, while holding his knife pressed against his neck. He leans in so close that they are almost touching noses, before whispering in a soft tone.
Micayle: I would really appreciate your help, Mister Vince. I don't like causing pain, but sadly, in order to find out the truth... sometimes pain is inevitable. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But science needs to prevail. It is after all, the only way I can find out the true secret to greatness. If you survive this, I'll bring you out for lunch one day. On my word as a great man... and an American citizen.
Boxer: Bullshit, I d-- URGH! ARGH! ARGHHHHH!!!
The grizzled middle-aged man starts to speak, but as he does, Micayle plunges his dagger deep into the stomach of the retired boxer, digging it in just where the organ meets the small intestines. The man yells in agony, but there's no stopping the Doctor. His hands are like steel, resisting the body jerks of the bound boxer. A pool of red slowly pours down his hand, as the man gasps for breath, trying to deal with the sudden pain.
Micayle: You've survived concussion-inducing blows.
He pulls the dagger an inch to the right. Tears start to form in the man's eyes.
Micayle: Numerous brain-damaging attacks.
Yet another inch. A tear is streaming down his right cheek right now.
Micayle: Body blows that could have paralyzed you for life.
One more inch. Oh, now there's a tear going down his left cheek.
Micayle: All I ask for you is to survive this one. Disembowelment.
As the Scientist finishes the last word, he pulls the knife to the right. Hard. The former boxer's intestines are now visible; almost like candy pouring out from a piñata come Thanksgiving.
Micayle: And I'll let you go.
He lifts the crimson blade up to his nose and sniffs at the blood. A metallic smell reaches him, and he nods approvingly. This is good blood. Chances are that he'll survive the attack. He glances at the man. His eyes are closed, with tears streaming down copiously from the pain. Almost as if he knew he was being watched, the former boxer opens his eyes, and stares Micayle down.
Boxer: You are an evil man. I will survive this, and get you. You hear me? I'll get you!!! Fuck you!
Micayle smiles. Fantastic. It seems that this old man has a lot more heart than he gave him credit for. Maybe he'll just survive what the teenager and the salesman didn't. He clears his throat, and exclaims loudly.
Micayle: Computer! Give me a body bag. I am going to place Subject Three in it and suspend him in vacuum! Give it an hour or so. I need to find out if he is truly someone who is blessed from the 'gods'.
He turns back to his newest victim and snaps his fingers.
Micayle: I'm going to prove to the world that there's no such thing as a gift from god, Vince. Everything is by cause and effect, and there must be something in you that cause you to behave the way you do. I will be facing someone who has that exact same thing. Believe me, I am going to find out just what that thing is, and extract it from you. If he has it, so must I. My friend said that if in science we go too far, we end up being war criminals. I disagree. Only by pushing limits, can we reach the next level.
Micayle glances at the other operating table, where the revolting carcass of the salesman still lies - almost like a lewd turkey ready for its delicious stuffing before entering the oven.
Micayle: And that's what I am going to do here on out, even if it means having to kill. Computer, please dispose of Subject Two. Thank you.
He turns away and walks off. The slow sobbing of the boxer merely adds to the atmosphere as two body bags are lowered down slowly from the skies. The computer is ready to do its master's bidding.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
<One hour later>Micayle pushes himself down for yet another push-up, his breath coming out in short, abrupt gasps. Perspiration drips down like rainwater from his forehead, as his pectoral and triceps muscles contract in an effort to hoist his body weight up. As fit as he may be, physical exertion is still something that the human body cannot overcome through sheer willpower. Exhausted, he breathes in one last time, before summoning all of his strength to lower himself one last time.
Micayle: Five hundred!
Eliciting a yelp of fatigue, he leaps up from the ground in a sudden burst of speed. Micayle immediately tries to bring his breathing back down to a manageable level. Using his hands to wipe off the sheen of sweat now covering his entire face, Micayle takes the opportunity to glance at the digital clock positioned just to his right.
One AM. Should be about enough time to see if the boxer is any different from the other two subjects. If he is truly an extraordinary human specimen, he ought to be still conscious. If not, well...
Micayle: Computer! Bring Subject Three back down!
The buzzing of machinery working goes on for several long seconds, until a body-sized sandbag rotates and gets lowered to the ground via a nylon rope. Ominously, there seems to be no sign of movement or struggling from the man positioned in the bag.
Computer: Subject Three is now on the ground. Awaiting the next instruction.
Micayle walks over, his face taut with anticipation. He pauses beside the body bag for just a bit - almost as if he's petrified of what he is about to see - before unzipping it halfway to reveal the man within. His expression never changes, as his eyes scan up and down what was located inside the bag to observe any form of life. Although if any other man or woman were to lay eyes on what he's so studiously examining, they would most probably hurl up their dinner. And lunch. And maybe dinner.
What was once a man before has now mutated into an absolute monstrosity. The rancid smell of copper permeates the air as a pale, deformed skull protrudes prominently from the bag. Blood is trickling slowly down all orifices - the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, and a frightened look is clearly visible on the face of poor Vince Bhatorov. Loose strands of hair can be seen all over the bag; telltale signs that the victim has taken to struggling violently just before his demise. As Micayle gently lifts up the head of the dead man, a sickening plop can be heard as one of his deformed eyeballs, squeezed ever so tightly by the constrained space, drops out of his eye sockets.
A hard look comes across Micayle's face as he observes the mutilated corpse of the boxer, while trying his best to find even the slightest semblance of a pulse in his neck. Desperately probing his fingers into his neck, a slight murmur of surprise escapes the Doctor as the oxygen-deprived flesh gives in to the pressure and collapses, resulting in three of his digits being immersed in fresh blood; his pinkie finger even manages to get caught in the middle of two neck tendons, bathing him in even more gore. He peers down the body bag and gags a little at the smell; apparently the stomach wound has accelerated his death. From his limited vision, he could spot his intestines flopping out of the lesion. The corpse is practically swimming in it's own fluids; both plasma and fecal.
Sniffing derisively at the entire situation, Micayle pulls his fingers out of the new wound and studies it for a second. He wipes the gore off on to his pants, before zipping up the body bag and giving it a good hard kick. He states in a firm voice.
Micayle: Death... by suffocation. Hmph. Computer, take Subject Three away and store his body. That's all for now.
Once again, the whirling goes on, before the computerized female voice speaks again.
Computer: Affirmative.
The nylon rope comes down and hooks up the body bag, before slowly lifting it back into the air. Micayle watches the bag move to the back of the room before retreating to his comfortable recliner chair. He lets out a sigh as he reflects on the night.
Seems that there's nothing special about this particular 'God-Given Greatness' after all. Judging by the colour of his fear-stricken face and the contortions of his twisted upper body, he had died kicking and screaming, unable to escape the suffocating grasp of the vacuum despite his earlier claims. The boxer was just like any other human being. He may have been a champion in his life, but when it comes down to mortality, he's no different from the rest of homo sapiens.
Disappointing.
But it's all right. He'll examine the others later and see if their bodies contain any genes that might contain the chromosome that is the foundation of their superiority. Maybe he'll continue with the salesman, seeing that his stomach and liver have already been extracted from his body. Micayle has yet to examine his kidneys and intestines yet. Perhaps that's where he'll find a difference-maker, allowing him to conclude this test positively.
But that'll have to wait - maybe till the morning at least. Micayle has a blog post to write, lest a certain Hank Brown comes hounding once more. A small smile comes into view before the Scientist swivels away, intent on typing away at his computer.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A very pleasant hello to all ladies and gentlemen who will be reading this blog post. Just a quick update on my part here; I am currently in the lovely country of Bulgaria for a scientific experiment of an undisclosed nature. Suffice it to say that after my research has concluded, I will be able to prove without a shadow of a doubt that my lovely opponent on Sunday, Mister Benjamin Atreyu, is NOTHING but a fatuous, reprobate reptile that ought to be shot in the head by a pistol if anyone were to see him on the streets in the future.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
You must forgive me for my sudden outburst of anger. If you had caught the previous episode of Slam, be it live in the stands or at home, you would have seen the repulsive acts that Benjamin partook in in front of a sellout crowd. Earlier in the week, I had generously decided that Benjamin had been taken advantaged of, and decided to make things right by offering him a match at Payback, where we will square off like honorable knights for the WCF United States Championship. The resignation of our former boss Sarah Twilight renders the perpetual 24/7 Hardcore rules retired, and this would result in the two of us having a fair and just bout where truly only the best man will win. That was what I had in mind when I granted Benjamin that match last week.
But instead of crumbling to his knees and kissing my boots for this golden opportunity I've provided him, that renegade took advantage of my magnanimity and attacked me from behind! This is truly an outrage of the highest order if you ask me. Did the peasants in the Middle Ages dare ask for more when the earl of their land allowed them to keep 20% of their stock? Did the women of Ancient China dare to go against their husbands and society when asked to drown their unwanted infant daughters? And more importantly, is Benjamin allowed to commit such an atrocious act after being awarded just minutes ago with the gift of a lifetime? The same answer resonates loudly: NO! This should not be!
I have made an official complaint to WCF management regarding this barbaric and unprovoked act, and I will be looking forward to pursue this matter till I get the result I want. Though I have not gotten an official reply from the suits yet, things are looking up from my end. The honorable WCF commissioner Mister Eric Price responded to my plea on social media earlier in the week and promised to extract a fine of $750,000 from the vile, soul-sucking scum that is Benjamin Atreyu. This is great news, and I am happy that things have progressed thus far. Being the perpetual card opener that he is, this should provide enough of a sting to make sure that he learns his lesson never to belittle his superiors in the future. He may have to scrimp and save for a few years following this fine, but hey, sometimes in order to learn a lesson, one has to suffer first.
Speaking of which, the work Mister Price has done thus far impresses me greatly. Hot-blooded and willing to get his hands dirty in order to get things done, he reminds me a lot of myself in my younger days. Though I am by no means a great judge of business matters, I see great things in the political career of Mister Price - provided he continues with this great streak of management. This federation should be well managed in his hands, and I look forward to having closer ties with a respectable man such as himself in the near future.
Benjamin, if you are somehow reading this, let me promise you this. Your little act of defiance last week means absolutely nothing to me. You can mock the fact that I am holding a title that you have held years ago, and that your title credentials are far superior to mine. You can smirk at me being dragged away by security last Slam while you stand free in the ring. It does not matter to me one bit. Your actions last week simply mean one thing to me - you are frightened of The Scientist.
You are afraid of facing me in the ring, man against man. You are afraid to have me at my very best. You are afraid of fighting a wrestler that is smarter, stronger, and most importantly, is more dangerous than you are. Despite your constant denials to your S-PAC mates and to the rest of the world, deep down in your self-obsessed, pathetic heart, you know that if were to meet in the ring and square off for the title, you will not be able to beat me. And you know why? Because I am simply a superior specimen as compared to you. I'm the alpha of the pack, while you are the weak male standing back while I mount your mate in coitus and impregnate her in front of your sorry face. It happens everywhere in biology - gorillas, cuckold birds, even modern day pornography - and it sure as heck is about to happen to you. That is why you need to deliver cheap shot after cheap shot to one as great as myself. That is the only way you even have a semblance of a chance to win the championship.
The God-Given Greatness is no match for The Scientist, and everyone in the locker room knows it. Your wrestling moves and strikes have impact, I admit, but they lack that killing intensity that one desperately needs in order to succeed in this very business. You may have been United Champion before in the WCF, but take note, I was not here yet. If I was... well, you are pretty much where you are right now - stuck in purgatory with nowhere to go, while needing an unselfish champion to hand out title opportunities due to the fact that you cannot win anything on your own. I am as ready as I ever will be, and you will be the recipient of my skills come Payback. You will be in pain by the end of the night. And judging by the rest of your outlaw stable mates, they will be too. Jack UnHappy!? Jonny Fly? Seems that your brain is not the only disease-riddled one who thinks it can poke a sleeping dragon in the eye and get away with it.
But no matter. I am not concerned with Chelsea Armstrong or Waylon Cash. They may belong to the same collective rot as you, but they are not my opponents this Sunday. You are. And you are going to pay for all your sins. Read these words, Benjamin, and remember them. Because they are about to come true.
I will defeat you at Payback. I will pin you, force you to tap out, or knock you out cold. I don't care which way I emerge victorious, as long as your maggot-riddled carcass is strewn in the middle of the squared circle and I stand over it, my WCF United States title around my waist and my smile on my face. You will bow down to me in defeat and kiss my feet, just as you should have when I awarded you that match last Sunday.
I promise it. So here is my advice to you, one final well-meaning tip before I shed off my shirt and pull up my wrestling tights. Just give it up. You may think you will do many things in life, and I am not one to dissuade a man from his goals. Instead, let me tell you what you will not be doing. You will not walk out on your own accord. You will not walk out unscathed and unbroken. You will not walk out unbeaten in our debut match against once another. And most importantly...
You will not be walking out champion on Sunday. You will never be. You may think you are, but I assure you... you are not.
Idiot.
Anyways, I do apologies for not completing my Team Science lesson with CryBoy McEmo last week. Yet again, another lemon of a wrestler has the audacity to reject my leadership. But no worries there dear readers. As you might already have known, I took the initiative to change his mindset through the sheer power of science. I believe that I could have persuaded him to drop his self-harming, hair-flicking horrid habit away, but Benjamin interrupted me before I could do so. My attention was then diverted by what would be an abysmal act by the Benedict Arnold of a wrestler, leaving my work with CryBoy uncompleted.
I will have to pay the veteran loser another visit soon, but until then, I will have to beg you patriots out there to endure just a little bit more. Once my research in Bulgaria is completed (I ought to be done around Friday) and I defeat Benjamin on Sunday, I promise that I will revert my attention to the wrist-slasher. Emos are a stain on our glorious society, and I will not stand for this. Not on my head as United States champion, proud crusader of all things American.
I will see all of you on Sunday.
A salute to my third - and no doubt successful - title defense,
Remus Micayle, Ph. D.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Micayle's hands are moving like Chopin on a piano. His fingers skimming across the keyboard like silk, he almost seems like a master at work. Eyes never leaving the monitor, Micayle is feverishly typing away at an almost inhumane speed. He types and types, until finally, he hits the send button with a satisfied THUMP.
He hates to admit it, but this blogging thing is something that he has really taken to as of late. Though not a thing he would have normally done, this way of communicating to the fans is really quite an ingenious idea. He would have to thank Hank Brown for that. No need for awkward press conferences, fan meetings, or any of that public relations nonsense. All one needs is a computer, and a couple of minutes a day, and he or she can connect with people all around the world with just the press of a button. Technology. Never fails to amaze him each time, really.
: Urgh...The scientist's head whirls at that sudden sound. For the better part of an hour, Micayle had been typing ardently in silence, fully intent on sending his blog post to his website and sharing his views with the world. Now, despite being a man of science and being quite possibly the only living soul in the entire mansion, he is nonetheless slightly spooked by the sound. His ears are perked up, alert to listen out for another sound.
: Urgh... *cough*...A delighted smile blooms on his face, as Micayle finally realizes where the noise is coming from. His eyes fall on the pink body bag where the teenager is lying in. Once motionless, the bag is now moving in a frenzy; almost as if the unconscious cadaver in it is somehow... still alive. The moans of pain are getting louder too, if one strains his or her ears. This is good news. Micayle quickly rubs the sleep from his eyes and stands up from his chair, slowly making his way over to where the bag is.
Teenage Gymnast: *cough*... hullo..? Help! *cough*...
His grin growing larger by the second, the Scientist quickly runs over to the struggling bag. His hands shaking in anticipation, he unzips the valise as fast as he can. It had been a long and difficult wait, but his planning has ensured that this would have eventually happened. I mean, come on. Three so-called superior specimens of the human race, and not one survived his initial purge? Rubbish. Tonight, Doctor Remus Micayle is about to find out what makes these top-quality individuals tick the way they do, and after doing so, he'll find out what it'll take to destroy them. That's the only way he'll get to defeat someone like Benjamin Atreyu. Getting into the head of a similar creature, and learning how to destroy him. Then, he'll use those same methods on Sunday and repeat the process - this time on the actual opponent.
The zip creaks open, and a soft sigh of relief escapes from the small opening. Not giving up, Micayle continues to rip apart the body bag. He hears a low moan of pain and cannot help but to let out a small laugh of his own. From where he is, he could practically smell the gymnast's genes. His mind is running at a million miles per second right now. Oh, the things he'll be able to find out after he's done with her!
Teenage Gymnast: *cough*...
Finally, he manages to open up the entire body bag. The body of a naked blood-soaked figure meets his glare, as she tumbles out on the ground, both hands clutching a three-inch wide stomach wound. His mouth starting to hurt from the wideness of his grin, Micayle stands aside, waiting for the gymnast to realise who had set her free. Her once blonde hair now streaked with the colour of her own vital fluids, it takes the gymnast several minutes before she gathers the strength to turn her body around. After much effort, she finally flips around, eyes wide in anticipation of greeting her 'savior'. Grunting in pain, she presses hard on her wound, determined to impede the flow of blood as best as she can. The fact that she can even wake from her induced coma is astonishing to say to least. There is a reason why samurais in feudal Japan choose to take their lives via such a method - it hurts.
Teenage Gymnast: Tha--
She stops in mid-sentence, as her eyes finally fall upon the imposing figure of Micayle.
Teenage Gymnast: AHHHHH!!!!
Instead, she starts screaming her head off, fully horrified at the extent of her captivity. The mere fact that she is able to make such a din despite being disemboweled impresses Micayle tremendously, and he nods his head in appreciation. There is nothing but sheer terror in her face, and Micayle revels in that thought. He looks to his right and notes the date.
It's just Thursday morning. Plenty of time in anyone's book. Three full days before he's even expected to be at Payback. That should give him enough time to make sure that he conducts a proper examination on the only survivor of the original trio.
Micayle: Computer! Suspend Subject One into the air; we will be conducting an organ examination immediately!
The whirling of chains start resonating around the room again, as the screams of the girl echo around the room sickeningly. There will be no escape for this worthy survivor, who despite her best efforts will assist him in dissecting the secret of the great. No elusion for her, and definitely none for Benjamin Atreyu come Sunday.
The experiment begins again.
