He knew these sounds all
too well. Over twenty years was between him and such horrible audible
memories, and still they rang clear in his mind as though they were
playing out in front of him - a torturous symphony. He raised his
hands to cover his ears as if that would help dull the memories. His
fingers, ending in claw-like nails, were digging into a savage mass
of hair so forcefully that one might assume he was trying crush his
own skull, a pain that would be a relief to his hellish journey down
memory lane. He began to shrivel into a ball in his chair, bringing
his knees under his chin and burying them in a thick overgrown beard.
He became unresponsive as he slowly regressed into a quivering child,
tears swelled in his eyes and rolled down his face in rapid streams,
his pupils shrinking to barely discernible dots as they darted back
and forth, and his teeth, bared and gnashing, ready to bite out the
throat of the next living thing that would dare to come near him.
Then it was over, the
sounds stopped for him. Not on there own, but by the introduction of
new and dissociated sound, one that was unique enough to shock him
back into reality, but not without consequence. Because the sound was
so different, it brought about a new level of fear and anxiety,
easily enough to turn his own body against him. His previously
shaking frame fired into action. The sound was the door knob on the
other side of the room slowly being opened, but to our sir, it might
as well have been the approach of the enemy, reaching across the veil
of time and memory to take his life. Or perhaps, he was afraid of
what he knew he might do to them in retaliation.
His muscles roared into
action. For anyone who would have been present, there would have been
a strange and fearful sight before them. Our sir's body exploded with
muscles expanding and swelling across his frame as a high pitched
noise emanated from his being. It was as if an engine fueled his
actions as the noise screamed with his every movement. He leaped from
his seat and grabbed both corners of the table that was before him
with purposeful vigor, perhaps too much. The table was made of solid
oak and was easily ten feet in length. When his hands fell upon the
table, they sank into it as though it was made of Styrofoam, the wood
splintering and cracking under the pressure, the sound bleating out
as if it were in pain.
Then, as if his own
strength was laughing in the face of physics, he lifted then entire
table and raised it back behind his head as though it were a
comically large baseball bat. In a very brief moment, some sense of
sanity remained, and our sir chose to not target the door, but the
clock that had been his abuser only moments ago with its infernal
ticking. He screamed, and then released the table across the room.
The force was enough to make it seem like the table had blinked out
of existence from his hands and then only to appear once more at its
destination, where it shattered the clock into pieces along with the
wall behind it. In that moment, the door opened as young man in a
suit entered. “Christ!” he screamed as he attempted to shield
himself from the debris with a manila folder and his free hand. Most
shocking, from the moment the door knob moved till now, less than two
seconds had passed. The table fell, still in one piece. Though the
clock was gone, the concrete wall behind it was was still intact,
mostly.
The young man slowly
relaxed as he took in the scene around him, the door shutting on its
own in the momentary calm of his observation. Our sir glared at him,
breathing heavily, hunched over, fists clenched - a cornered animal.
The young man met his gaze, and for what could have only been the
briefest of moments, showed a glimmer of hesitation before his
countenance completely changed into that of an innocent child. “Wow,
you really are something else!” he said, his eyes bright and
enthusiastic. “But if the clock was a bother, you should have said
so.” He smiled as he spoke, clean white teeth, all even without
imperfection. Our sir thought that such a smile could only belong to
two possible identities for such a man – a salesman or a government
agent. He hoped it was the former, at least that would quell his urge
to choke the life out of him is needed.
“I'm agent Jackson. I'm
with the CIA. It's an honor to meet you.” the man said. Our sir
continued to gaze on, swallowing his own disdain for what he realized
moments earlier about his visitor. “CIA? Aren't you a little young
to be a spy?” our sir responded. Jackson was young, in appearance
at least. He was tall, dressed in a black suit and gray tie. He was
baby faced, soft, with a pair of blue eyes and a curly mound of short
blonde hair. “True, but no one would suspect you're pushing sixty
am I right?” responded Jackson with a charming wit more accustomed
to our sir's initial prediction that he was about to be sold
something, a fact that would be proven to not be completely wrong.
Jackson's remark
regarding our sir's age was not incorrect. Despite his savage
appearance, no one would suspect that he was anything but a young man
in his mid-thirties. But truthfully, he was in his late fifties,
almost sixty. This truth along with our sir's recent display of
strength and speed only served as a reminder for him that he was
indeed no longer what one would call 'human.' What had been done to
him, to all of them, was something that was done in secret over two
decades ago in an attempt to change the world. How this baby faced
government agent knew of such things only made our sir even more on
edge as he began to feel that familiar anxiety and desperation rise
in his chest and throat.
“Care to lend a hand?
No sense in leaving a mess now, eh?” Jackson spoke as he moved
towards the table and crouched near it to gain leverage. “Huh?
Oh...S-sure.” our sir responded. Odd, he thought. Our sir had dealt
with numerous people like Jackson before, wide smiling government
assholes who lie through their perfectly white teeth only to jerk you
around long enough to get what they want. But for some reason that he
could not describe, Jackson had a sense of genuineness about him. He
seemed to act like a kid in front of his idol, putting on a
respectful demeanor while his excitement built up inside, always
ready to burst. It was his smile, it was ear to ear, but not forced
like some shit spewing con-man. Jackson was happy be here, that was
certain.
They both grabbed an end
to the table and set it back up in the middle of the room, just as it
had been before our sir had re-purposed it. “S-Sorry.” Our sir
said as they finally placed it down. “Don't Worry. It can't be
helped after all. So why not lend a hand, right?” Jackson
emphatically replied. “There now, no harm no foul-” Jackson was
cut off as the door slowly opened and a young woman with jet black
hair, holding a clipboard over her face and head came into the room.
“I-is everything okay, sir?” She said meekly. “Oh! Ms. O'Neil.
Come in. Everything is fine. Nothing two gentleman can't fix.”
Jackson responded. “If you say so, sir.” O'Neil said. Their words
to one another seemed almost comical to our sir, but there was still
a feeling that these two were constructing some elaborate ruse in
order to get something from him. After all, he was brought into this
damn place by force. Granted, he never would have come willingly, but
he was tired of trying not to kill his captors while also protecting
himself. Ultimately he knew it would be better to give in and wait
for an opportune moment to escape. But there was also something about
them, especially Jackson, that amused him, made him feel calm. With
that feeling their was a memory, buried deep within, that he sought
desperately for but could not find.
“Ms. O'Neil is my
assistant. Truth be told I'd be lost without her.” Jackson said as
he took his seat. O'Neil stood at his right side and our sir took his
seat as well. Jackson put the folder he was carrying on top of the
table and then interlocked his fingers between one another and placed
his hands on top of the folder as he leaned in. 'Getting straight to
the point.' our sir thought. “I'm very sorry you were brought here
in such a violent manner. But please understand that we had no
choice. The government wants me to explain to you that we are in a
very desperate situation. But I honestly believe that far more than
our country is at stake. Personally, I feel the world may need your
help.” It was a tad dramatic, but Jackson's words did seem sincere.
Our sir only listened and choose to not give any sign that he was
interested in what Jackson had to say. He chose to remain motionless,
his glare steady, waiting for a moment that was most opportune to
make an escape.
“You might not know
this, but the Cold War is still going on. however, we are reaching
the endgame. The Soviets have actually come to us asking for help
with a problem that we feel you are the only solution for.” Jackson
said as he passed the folder over to our sir from across the table,
the folder sliding and spinning over to our sir's clawed hand which
stopped it in front of him, right side up, his hand covering the
words in front of him. When he moved his hand, our sir's breath
quickened, his blood ran cold, and far too many horrors clawed their
way into the forefront of his mind. It was as if hell's doors swung
wide open, emptying its contents. Now Jackson had his attention, and
there was no plan to escape, only the desperate need to hear that his
fears were unjustified, that what would come next would be the
complete opposite of the notions that plagued his fragile mind.
“Six months ago a
nuclear power plant in the Ukraine went critical. The Soviets have
set up a thirty kilometer demilitarize zone around the reactor and
have attempted to shield the surrounding area from contamination by
building a reinforced structure around the leaking reactor.
Unfortunately, that's not why we need you. Three weeks ago, a Soviet
research and development facility was attacked by only four
individuals. They killed everyone, over a hundred people. Worse yet,
they stole an experimental vessel and have decided to hold up in the
leaking reactor I just spoke of. The description of the culprits was
clear to us. They were members of your old unit, the Iron Pack.”
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