The Counterfeit

Independent roleplay blog for Overwatch Talon OC Emil Jakobsson

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[Hey! The OW RP community isn’t working out for me so I’ll be on semi-hiatus in case things pick up. Might even be switching gears. Semester’s starting, too, right? Good luck to all of you guys starting the new semester! 

-Hien]

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piracyy:

     ❝ CAPTAIN. imogen. ❞ her men seemed to stiffen around her, each of them all-too familiar with her disdain for title misuses. imogen, however, kept her features calm. holst was new to this life; she could let his SLIP UP slide this time. ❝ or commander. whichever you fancy more. ❞ she graciously accepted her prize & dipped her head. ( who said ruthless pirates couldn’t be polite? ) 

     a buzz in her ear from one of her scouts brought the approaching vessel to her attention & a smile to her lips. imogen held the case out to one of her crew members, who quickly took it in exchange for the confiscated knife & firearm, & handed it back to holst, as promised. the sooner she could get this talon filth off her deck, the BETTER. how they got off, she didn’t really care….

Keep reading

She dipped her head and took the case. Yes, fine, okay. Captain Imogen it was.

As his partners finally arrived and parked their boat in the ship's shadow, the pirates scrambled on the deck like a pack of howling dogs. They yanked the prisoners by the collar, dragging them so hard that the heels of their shoes peeled the floorboards and their faces turned suffocating red, eyes bulging. Holst, help. do something.

"Seems like a bit of a waste, don’t you think?" she wondered just because she could. Emil took back his gun and switchblade. 

"Does it matter? It's your win either way."

All done. 

Seagulls squawked loudly on the ship’s mast. Chains rattled in the ocean wind. Twelve men stood side by side dripping salty wet, their wounds seeping. Some shook out of anger. Others, in fear. And even if Emil couldn’t see through their blindfolds he knew they were all thankful nobody could see the look in their wide inflamed eyes. Pirates messily poured the rum and set the glasses on top of their heads nice and neat.

First one up. What was his name?

Imogen drew her pistol, shot, and the glass shattered.  Rollins--that was it--tumbled over the rail and screamed before slapping the surface of the ocean like a rock. 

The crew screeched with laughter as spit sprayed from their chapped lips. Emil felt his left eye pulse with pressure and one of the pirates hobbled over to him, shoving the shot of rum into his hand, the alcohol sloshing over the brim and onto his wrist.

He had his orders. Everyone was watching. Talon was watching.

It burned on the way down. He raised his gun, pointed it, and squeezed. The bullet blew a hole in the man’s cheek and he careened backwards into the ocean, his glass and fragments of bone smashing over the deck. The pirates howled harder.

“Can’t aim for your friends when you’re sea sick, can you, Talon?”

“Shooting down your own kind. Not even you can stand each other!”

“How about we let you join ‘em after you’re finished?”

Emil frowned, throat tightening, and fished for the eye drop in his suit jacket. Let him go already. “Okay. Your turn.”

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piracyy:

     imogen shot a glance back at the counterfeit, her face none the more satisfied. she’d been WAITING for this moment. oh, she’d been planning it since the very day that damned cesspool of an organization had crossed her. the only reason she’d made no attempts to tear them from throat to crotch was because they still held VALUE to her–––in that they still paid well ( better than most nowadays ). & they had considerable resources that she found useful. 

     so this little DEMONSTRATION was something of a t r a d e. twenty ( well, EIGHT) lives for one attempt on hers. 

     ❝ my my, the sharks were HUNGRY today, weren’t they? ❞ she nodded her head, giving the okay to open the cage doors, let the surviving men out. ❝ you couldn’t have been down there more than fifteen minutes. ❞ some of the operatives shot her glares, others looked at her with fear, & others still avoided her gaze as best they could. another nod from their captain had the pirates tossing the cage & the bodies back overboard. if talon wanted them, they could fish them out themselves. 

     ❝ ah-ah ah~ ❞ a lilt ran through her chime, its high note carrying a faint sting felt just in the back of the head. it made her men & the operatives alike cringe. imogen turned on her heel, stood before holst once more, ( my, she was SMUG. ) ❝ MY gun first. please. ❞ she held her hand out, wordlessly demanding her part of the bargain. her crew circled once more, adding extra security to the trade–––not that there was anywhere else to go but OVERBOARD with the dead.

The hum pierced his ears and an invisible twitch throbbed under his eye. He smiled, but it had no sincerity.

“You are a very demanding woman, Ms. Imogen.”

In truth, he hated her. He hated how self-satisfied she was, how she intimidated him even now, how she gave him front row seats to the bodies of men torn apart by sharks--a threat to Talon. He even hated her hair and those goddamn blue eyes. But he hated a lot of things. Emil picked up the brief case, jabbed the number pad twelve times to disarm the security system, then handed it off. 

The men started wobbling up to him now. They were off balance and trembling from fear or anger. Probably both. The smell of ocean brine and blood attacked his nose.

“Holst--” One of them croaked.

“You’re staying here... actually.”

“What do you--”

“Just do it,” he sighed.

They froze. They stayed there gaping at him, their wrists bound and burned by ropes, then, finally, it clicked. Emil focused on how their jaws tightened, waited for his gun, and could make out the faint hissing of a powerboat rushing towards them. The others were coming back for him.

“I have my orders to shoot. Or throw them overboard. Our boat has an eight-man capacity, and there’s four of my associates--myself included.” Too small to take twelve extra men in just so they can be killed. The agents held their breaths and Emil trailed off, looking at her. “If you want.”

The pirates around her took the hint. Their smiles, yellow and gaping, spread wide and crinkled their sand-crusted eyes. Would she let the survivors be killed here?

“Don’t let that Talon trash finish ‘em off by himself, Captain. Tie ‘em up!” one cheered. “Shoot the rum off their heads!”

[I was thinking the men get lined up side-by-side near a low railing with shot glasses of whatever drink put on top of their heads, then Emil and Imogen take turns shooting the glasses off, except maybe internationally just shooting them? Or just her/just him shooting? Maybe she and her crew would want to do something else to the captured agents? I dunno. It’s not his cup of tea, killing, but it’s your choice!]

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piracyy:

     oh she did hate talon. they paid well ( even if it was like pulling teeth to get a good deal ), but the BACKSTABBING–––that was a little difficult to ignore. & imogen wasn’t one to FORGIVE so easily. not over matters like this. 

     but a weapon of this caliber, & the location of a long-lost treasure stash could ALMOST make up for it. almost. her expression lit up, & pearly whites peeked out through grinning lips. she tipped up her glass, finishing off her drink, but didn’t let her gaze look away for fear that the prize might vanish. 

     ❝ now THAT is a pretty weapon, ❞ she said, voice almost a p u r r. only when the ship stopped, & a buzzing sounded in her ear from one of her crew up top, did imogen look away from the case contents. she set her glass down & stood up, now-freed hand taking his untouched glass. she raised it to him, then downed it as well, & made her way back to the doors. 

     ❝ we’re here, mister holst. my men are hauling yours up as we speak. ❞ she pushed the doors open, bright sunlight nigh blinding, & led them back topside where several pirates huddled around a CAGE laden with soaked talon operatives. sea water tinted with red slicked the deck, but imogen paid it no mind. 

     ❝ TWENTY of them, right? are there still twenty in there? ❞ hands folded behind her back, the siren approached the cage to look the captives over. each wore a rebreather, so they’d never been in danger of DROWNING ( at least not in the short span of time they’d been down there ) but the s h a r k s …. well… there were twelve men in varying degrees of injury, & eight PARTIAL bodies….

“Bring ‘em up!”

Emil locked the case, followed her out the door, then stepped out on deck squinting into the blinding white light. The sun beat down on him and he noticed ocean water slopping on the floor boards, licking his shoes.

It was red with diluted blood.

Locked in a cage, twelve men stood huddled together wheezing for air, eyes bloodshot from the stinging salt. Some had pieces of skin torn away from them–missing fingers, missing ears, limbs half-torn–their skin coated in a thick layer of spurting blood, still wet and hot. They were all hugging one end of the cage. On the other lied heaps of bodies. Blood dribbled from where their arms and heads were ripped off, coating the floorboards sticky thick like the richest honey, like bubbling tar. Flies have started burrowing under the skin. They were laying.

Wordless, Emil stood with a lump in his throat. He cleared it and looked down to his shoes.

“I’ll have to call you on that,” he mumbled.  

Walking away, he pulled out his phone pretending not to hear the living’s weak, gargling cries. Talon picked up. 

“She had our men… Uh. Yes. Sharks ate eight of them and you have twelve left… No. No, they would have died, anyway……Why not?” Emil put the case down, rummaged through his pocket, and pulled out a small device. It scanned the men with a holographic light and they moaned in despair. “Done.” 

A long stretch of silence then. Seagulls cawed on the sails… Men vomited from the sea water… Emil listened, finally turned off his phone, and sighed. Imogen was waiting. 

“My gun... Please?”

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wingcdmedic:

Keep reading

Chest full of fire, electrical, wide spread, neural implosion. He breathed with pain like inhaling chemical warfare and the world spun around him, blacking in and out, in and out, until the black, fuzzy edges of his vision consumed the world whole. There were voices far off. Or not. Their words garbled together like listening to the world carry on from the dark depths of an empty pool.

Emil's eyes fluttered, almost seized, in their sockets. 

"As always, we'll defer to your expertise, doctor." The agent was un-phased by her sharp glare. He uncapped the acid. "But we're not here to kill him. The director wants him to join us, and who are we to disagree? This is just reassurance. After this, he's all yours." 

He filled the dropper and left her in his wake. 

A clamor of hands now, but Emil, dazed and confused, did nothing. His head jerked back--someone had balled his hair into the palm of their hand--and his left eye was being pried open. They were whispering to him. He could see a bottle. Like an eye drop. Then a blossom of pain. He yelled.

He was freed from his ropes and Emil crashed onto the ground like a body plopped into a river. His eye was burning away, blistering like someone had doused it in gasoline and snuffed a smoldering cigarette onto it bubbling, corroding, dissolving. His cries ripped through his throat and his fingers slippy-slick clawed at his sweat-coated face.

“Your turn, doctor.”

The agent kicked the hose closer to her, pulled out his phone, then left. They’d drive her back to the medical ward of their base in due time. Right now, he had a call to make.

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HC: Films and Hobbies

Emil is not a lover of many things, but film is a great exception. Since his youth, he must have spent fifteen hundred hours alone staring at the flashing screen. When he’s not busy with a job, he’s sure to be hunkered down in front of the television absorbing the story or re-watching old-time favorites so often he remembers every line of every character. He has a soft spot for It’s a Wonderful Life; it was a Christmas tradition for him and his grandfather Lucas, who ran a small old-fashioned movie house in Gothenburg. It was Lucas who opened Emil’s eyes to the world of cinema, to all of its rich, unique genres as diverse as all the ice cream flavors in the world. Emil learned how to operate a movie projector through his grandfather, too, and little did Lucas know just how deep Emil’s love for the silver screen ran… until he started skipping classes and falling asleep in their movie house during closing hours.

Not surprisingly, Emil’s affair with films hasn’t died with age, even if he can’t indulge like he did as a boy. He has a vast collection of movies both in hard copy and on his computers, although he has an undeniable bias for movie reels. So rare in the year 2076, they’ve become incredibly valuable, and they’re something Emil will be remiss if he didn’t buy every now and then. Sure, he can just download the movie. But to feel it in your hands? Especially an original? That’s something else entirely.

When it comes to genres, he’s open to them all. Whatever’s good is good in his mind, but that doesn’t stop him from gravitating towards the noirs and Golden Age classics. To date, his top five, in no particular order, are: Shadow of a Doubt, Double Indemnity, Ladri di Biciclette, Casablanca, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He does not understand the love for Gone with the Wind and never will. 

On the off-chance he’s not burning his eyes out watching a self-declared marathon, he gets a kick out of competitive chess and poker, even online through playchess.com and 888poker.com. It’s not so much fun, though, as it is a way for him to exercise his ego with mathematical reasoning. 

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piracyy:

     one brow quirked, imogen followed her guest’s gaze to her collection of weaponry & trophies. did he think she’d use such priceless items on something as LOWLY as him? how CUTE. it brought a tight little smirk to her lips. 

     ❝ why? it’s simple, really. ❞ the siren rounded her desk & retrieved two glasses & a bottle of rum from one of its cabinets. delicate hands twisted the bottle open & filled each glass with a splash of the spirits, one of which she nudged in holst’s direction. whether he’d drink it or not was up to him. ❝ i didn’t want any more talon STINK on my ship. ❞ she sipped her drink nonchalantly, icy hues boring into his. 

     ❝ i am a woman of my word until i am crossed, mister holst. i said you’d get your men, & you WILL. but first…. ❞ she gave the case locked in his grip a pointed glance. ❝ let’s see what we’re bargaining here. open the case, if you wouldn’t mind. ❞ naturally, her tone suggested she didn’t care if he minded or not. 

He watched the rum slosh and swirl, feeding himself the idea that if he’d just steady himself, she’d have no reason to kill him. Not today.

“Fair enough.” It was all he knew to say. 

Setting the case onto her desk, Emil ignored her drink, but not the way she talked down at him. But he was Talon. She hated Talon. And he was unarmed and alone in a ship crawling with red-faced pirates who’d kill to pack him in a barrel and roll him overboard. He braced himself, dared to look straight into her sharp blue eyes, then punched in the code.

Inside was a heavy weapon and a small cube-like device. They were protected by a biotic field.

“I suppose my managers haven’t given you the full details on our little exchange beyond a valuable prototype,” he started, slipping his hands into his pockets. “And, of course, the location to Ms. Ching’s fortune.”

Ching Shish, the infamous Chinese pirate queen, dead centuries ago. He didn’t bat an eye as the ship creaked to a stop.

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Commutative Law

Emil wakes up with a parched throat and a sickening throb nestled behind his bad eye. It hurts, he moans in his head, but he ignores it until one hour later when it’s progressed into a splitting earthquake–an 8.0 on the Richter scale–rattling the contents of his skull. Low barometric pressure. A rumble of thunder echoes through the sullen sky and it confirms his suspicions.

He rolls out two Advils where the pink outer coating melt into the creases of his palm, filling them like bloody rivers. He pops them in, one-two, then four more for good measure. Afterwards, he lets his mind wander.

Damn Talon. Damn them for confiscating his medicine carrier on suspicion of hidden chips, information, whatever. Damn them for taking it from him after he’d spent seven hours planted in a plane, only to be held prisoner in an Istanbul airport waiting for them to overtax and inspect his neatly organized pill containers, his goddamn bottles of ophthalmics and Neptazane. He hates it when people bury through his medication.

“You don’t trust anyone, do you?” Anya had asked him one day. 

Emil said nothing at the time, but he concedes with a “no.” He doesn’t even trust anyone with his real name. He is Christen Holst through and through, and he pushes himself off his chair to the safe haven of his bedroom where he left the ceiling fan spinning.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it won’t go away. The pain pulses in his eye so badly he’s half-tempted to take a hit and drown his misery in a tidal wave of morphine, a sea of opiates. Stop thinking. He can’t. He sprawls over the crumpled sheets of his bed as the nausea stews him alive and, in spite of his better judgement, he thinks about what she said, about how he doesn’t trust anyone or anything but the cold logic of mathematical laws. If a = b, then a + b = b + a. There is no question or doubts, no grays. Just hard truth.

Not with people.

His door creaks open but he’s too sick to give a damn. It’s Anya, anyway. She was supposed to deliver him his medicine.

“You’re looking worse for wear,” she says. Usually, her voice is steady and quiet, but under his splitting head, it might as well be an avalanche. “I’d take that medication if I were you.”

“Well, you’re not, so…”

She drops his carrier beside him and unzips it. The prescriptions rattle like candy shakers and he fights with himself to sit up, wincing at the wave of nausea colliding into him like an off-rail freight train. He finally manages it, his eyes held shut. The light is hell.

“Here.”

A hand against his forehead. He can do it himself, but with the room spinning, she might as well. Her skin is cold as though she’d just plunged into the very depths of a frozen lake. But it cools him. It soothes his throbbing headache, and then she’s pulling down his eyelid, letting the light in. He stifles the guttural moan in his throat before she squeezes the eye drop. One, two, three. 

When she is done, Emil sits in the darkness, blinking away at the excess solution. A tissue tickles his cheek. He can feel it, the tips of her fingernails as she brings her hand up to him, the icy touch of her bone-white skin. She’s close. Closer than he thought. Her breath sweeps through his lashes as she dries his eye with the care of an artist and, at once, he realizes they are only an inch apart, a whisper. Wordless in their proximity. Her fingers press against his temple… over the pockets of his deep-set eyes… down the bridge of his nose… the center of his still, too still, lips. He feels the trace she draws. The touch, the line, the mark. Her hand leaves him.

“Maybe I’ll catch you on better days,” she says, tossing the tissue in a nearby wastebin.

Emil says nothing. He can only stare. She is gone without another word and it takes him two whole minutes before he grabs his pills, opens the lid, and pops three by random. He spends the rest of the day with nausea as his only companion.

She is shades of gray, he surmises. He can’t trust her.

[forfalskad]

❛ you shouldn't write with a dull pencil. it's pointless. ❜

Emil sighed, half tired and annoyed, and looked up. He was forging a signature for an old, weather-beaten paper. It was his third interruption tonight.

“I’m sorry. Did I ask? Is everyone ready to leave now?”

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piracyy:

     for the second time in not FIVE MINUTES imogen had holst at her mercy. she held him at knifepoint for several moments more, if only to make sure her point was CLEAR, then rocked back on her heels & replaced the knife in its rightful place on her arm. a click of her tongue, & her men too slowly lowered their weapons. 

     ❝ GOOD. back to your posts, boys. we’ve got two minutes to get to mister holst’s men before we’re late for this trade. ❞ mumbled ‘ aye, captain ’s rose from the crowd, &, just as slowly, the pirates backed off, slinked back to their posts around the ship like the obedient dogs they were. imogen herself continued on-course to her cabin & pulled the door open so her guest could enter first. 

     ❝ now about that drink…. if you won’t have one, i’m more than happy to drink for the both of us. ❞

She kept the knife pressed against his nose. The ocean lapped against the hull, and she pulled back.

“…It’s your ship. I really don’t care,” Emil breathed.

As soon as the door opened, he waited, untrusting, hesitant, then finally slipped in with his hand wound tightly around the case. 

It was quieter in here. Sunlight bled through the holes of hanging fishnets and the darker corners of her room were lit by the dim glow of humming monitors. Emil smelled the sharp odor of ocean salt that clung onto every surface. It started coating over his skin and seeping into the fabric of his clothes.

They were alone now, away from the crew. And yet he wasn’t safe.

“The arrangement is in two minutes, and you’re hiding them away instead of holding them on board,” he finally said, but only after a long stretch of silence. “You never said why."

Paranoia warned him she was planning something. He glanced at the weapons on her wall.

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piracyy:

     ❝ TRUST me? ❞ an airy chuckle left her lips. she shot a glance over her shoulder, an amused twinkle in her eyes. ❝ we’re PIRATES, mister holst. what’s there not to trust? you can put as much faith in me as i put into YOU & your organization. ❞ which was to say, not much at all. 

     ❝ i know what was said, & i’m very aware of the time. if you’ll look at any clock, you’ll see we still have three minutes until the exchange is to take place. that’s plenty of time to get to your men. fret not, mister holst, you will get them. ❞ another glance over the shoulder indicated she was listening, & that she was WATCHING the man carefully. everyone was watching him, scrutinizing his every move. one step too far out of line, & they’d all be ready to spring. 

     STRIKE TWO. imogen stopped abruptly, chin lifting. ❝ that sounds like a THREAT, mister holst. ❞ the siren spun on her heel, knife pulled from the straps on her bare arm, & pushed its tip just into the man’s nose. height differences be damned; SHE was the one with power here. a sharp yank would slice his nostril open if he wasn’t careful. ❝ i encourage you to remember exactly WHERE you are & who you’re dealing with. ❞

He barely caught her spinning on her heel when she whipped out a knife and stuck it in his face. Quick as a switchblade, he reached for the inside of his pocket for his pistol, his knife, but like he’d been struck by lightning he remembered: they took it.

All around, the ship stirred.

The pirates left their positions, their hands pulling out guns and blades and rifles, creeping closer. Emil was frozen in place. Any sudden movement now and out of instinct they might charge at him and feed him full of bullets and swords. He kept his face as straight as possible, but there was resentment and a silent, growing anticipation.

“…Okay,” he said, trying to maintain his pride. “You have my guarantee.”

But her men stayed surrounding him, guns raised.

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illuminforged:

|| 🌫 —

   The moment the man seemed to refuse her request, the folder of vital information she’d kept so close to her person so protectively pushed aside so simply (as though she had just shown him a boring essay), mechanical hands-itching to wrap around something soft and fleshy- slammed down onto the table hard enough to rattle his PRECIOUS dossiers and nearly crack the surface.

          “It is unfortunate.” She spoke, meeting his gaze with her own as her tone held a note that was almost threatening in its venom. “But that’s why I came to you.”  

           Find them. Her eyes seemed to say, almost cloudy in bare hatred at the thought of the agents.

                                                                                 Find them now. 

She struck the desk and his dossiers rattled.

There was anger behind her eyes. Her voice was sharp, rough with a loaded threat and fueled by hatred. He could tell this was important to her. Maybe too important. He glanced down to her arms, those metallic white arms that shined and reflected the image of his face. 

At last, she had his full, undivided attention.

"You want my services in finding four men who’ve fled the country under unknown circumstance. They want to be hidden, and they will undoubtedly take absolute measures to remain that way, putting me at risk. Your most recent location is two weeks old which leaves me a point zero five eight percent chance of finding one man. And you want me to do this,” he huffed, stone-faced, “...all for our employers’ best interest.” 

Almost like he was being asked to endanger himself out of the goodness of his heart. He wouldn’t.

[forfalskad]

hc + the ocean B)

December 3rd. The nights were long now. Growing longer. Emil sat in quiet solitude within the four walls of his compartment, watching the stars and the city lights blur past him like motion sickness, his breath fogging the frosted window. He looked down at his watch for the time. 6:30. He had been on the train for three hours. He closed his eyes and, soon, fell into a fitfull sleep where he dreamt of nothing at all.

He arrived in Gothenburg near midnight. The snow crunched angrily under his shoes and the cold nipped at his nose, his ears. His grandfather never left this city. Emil jammed his cracked hands into his pocket, opened his mouth against the warm fabric of his scarf, and trudged down the streets twinkling beneath the early Christmas lights.

Soon, he told himself. Soon.

Near the sea now. He could make out the city’s lights dancing over the surface of the water, black as leprosy. He stopped at the snowy shore and gazed at the entirety of the Baltic. The stars shined. The ferries were docked, dead and still. Emil remembered how his grandfather loved it here in the summers. He loved basking in the sun, breathing in the salty breeze, wasting time trying to break the world record for most sand crabs caught. He was dead. Gone from heart failure. His ashes were scattered to the wind and sea.

Emil flipped the coin in his pocket. It was for good luck, Lucas had told him, but he was 32 now and jaded and worn and he didn’t believe in luck and fairy tales anymore. He pulled it out from his coat, holding it up so that it was the same size beside the silver-faced moon. Blow on it for good luck, Emil, like this, and then…

He threw his hand back.

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piracyy:

     thin lips pursed in thought. already he’d broken her trust ( not that there had been much to begin with; talon was a HARD agency to trust–––especially considering what they’d tried in the past ); such an offense made it difficult to proceed. but she had the counterfeit surrounded, & she’d yet to hear any reports of FOUL PLAY from her scouts boating around the area. ocean eyes drifted down to the case. 

     ❝ i’m afraid i don’t have your men WITH ME, at the moment, ❞ she started, ❝ but they’re only a short ride away. ❞ imogen tossed her head, giving a silent cue to her men to fall into their places aboard the vessel. several scrambled to lift the anchors, while others rushed to secure the solar sails, & one took up post at the ship’s wheel so they could begin their journey. 

     imogen strode past holst, towards her private quarters, expecting him to follow. ❝ now that we’re CLEAR, would you care for a drink, mister holst? ❞

She didn’t have them with her. Suspicion crept up on him like a shadow, lingering, but he followed despite his better judgement. He had little choice.

“You gave us your word you’d have our men at the agreed time,” he reminded, ignoring her offer. “Which makes me wonder if I should trust you at all.”

He shouldn’t trust any of them. Even now, as he followed five steps behind her to her cabin, he stole glances at the crew. They were hoisting their sails and lifting their anchors, spitting overboard and throwing squinted glares at him. Her quarters was just coming into view now, and he became more aware than ever of just how vulnerable he was; alone on this ship, no weapon... 

"You obviously value your empire,” he said, seemingly admiring her ship. “It’d be a waste if my organization destroyed what’s so rightfully yours.”

[forfalskad]

wingcdmedic:

Keep reading

“Again.”

No, not again. His body tensed, every part of him screaming for him to beg, but he was too late.

The second wave. It was stronger this time. In an instant an electric current burst in his entire core and jolted him stiff, seering through his capillaries and rippling through to every square inch of his body like a flood, a spark. It was over in just three seconds. He quivered, the electricty still lingering inside, and panted. There would be more.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t sell them out. Someone would know it was him and hunt him down. Emil struggled in his chair, fighting the ropes around his wrists, burning himself against it, rubbing off the skin and swallowing the dry air of terror. He only stopped when Angela kneeled in front of him, half-expecting her to stab him in the chest, but when it never happened and he found her eyes, blue and tainted by the yellow lights, he saw something.

Concern?

He hesitated too long.

One of them turned the dial without either of them knowing. It came at him in a rush. He convulsed in his chair, shaking, burning, consumed by fire like he’d been wired to a car battery and forced full of electricity and oh, for the love of God, please stop. A long two seconds pass, and it does.

He went slack.

“Leave again, Dr. Ziegler, and my hand might just accidentally turn the dial,” an agent said. Closeby, in front, another moved in to try and rip her away by the arm. Emil could vaguely hear their footsteps. “Mr. Holst. The doctor will try 40 milliamps shortly.”

“Okay. Okay. Thomas,” Emil spat out. Not more. Not worse. His lungs were aflame, his chest crumbling, and he wanted it all to stop. More than anything, he wanted it to stop. “Thomas Peterson… Bristol. Delilah Whitaker is currently in Michigan… and in Prague you will find a Yusuf Bayar.”

More shocks. They wanted her to do 45 milliamps. Then 50 and 55. He began slurring names, places, breathing abnormally, his heart beating off course. Everything hurt. Just thinking hurt. His lungs have been fried and charred, he was so convinced, and as he’s seizing and dribbling garbled cries–his body engulfed in a nuclear meltdown, an exploding power line–his eyes rolled to the back of his head where he could see nothing but the calm, empty black coaxing him into oblivion.

Then, at last, when the night was darkest and the air cool, he gave up the last name. Amita Noory, now living in Berlin with a family of three.

Emil wheezed in his chair, head hanging. He was slowly drifting away.

“You did well, doctor. I’ll report to the director of your work here, but if you could just help us hold him down for a moment.“ The agent looked at Angela, threateningly apathetic, and began rummaging through his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small vial of acid and turned it over, the label facing her. In small print it read, ‘HYDROCHLORIC ACID.’ “Remind me: how many drops of this would blind a man?”

—————————–

[Sorry it got long again, but same thing applies: you don’t have to write so much! :) You can just write however much or little you want. Good with me. I also used this as a reference to the milliamps.]

[daphneg121]

Mads Mikkelsen as Le Chiffre (Casino Royale)

[forfalskad]

wingcdmedic:

Crack—there goes the veneer of her facade as she turns to stare at the agent pointing at the cart. It feels like a slap in the face, being ordered to use her medical skills to inflict pain. She has half a mind to spit in his face and storm off, but she knows what awaits those who disobey orders—-and she can’t bear the thought of being at the mercy of these people who derive satisfaction from torture.

Keep reading

He was paralyzed, but he could not stop the trembling in his jaw. His neck. His hands. Her heels clicked against the concrete floor and he flinched.

He was scared. The fear seeped through his bones and ate away at him from the inside. If he doesn’t give them what they want, they kill him. If he spills everything--sells out everyone--then one of these days when he finally believes he’s safe enough to sleep, he will be shot and his body bloating on the surface of a lake. Emil squeezed his eyes shut but it did not help. Her heels stopped echoing and he knew she was beside the cart.

Down the garage, water dripped undisturbed. It crashed softly in a puddle. One drop, then two--

Electricity ripped through his body, snapping through his tendons and his muscles and his body locked in a shock of burning pain. As quickly as it came, it stopped. 

He smothered a sob.

“We had transmitters. All of us,” he sputtered, his face burning red. “But we had them disposed of, because even after your organization fell... people would want... what we know.”

An agent stood behind Angela. His breath was hot and sunk down the back of her neck. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. “Turn the dial--”

“Wait! Wait... I-I track everyone. Everyone I’ve worked with to ensure a degree of security. You can have them. All of them.”

He sat there weak and pathetic, staring at her, waiting for something. Anything. There was a plea in her eyes but he couldn’t see it. His sweat glistened. 

“Do it again,” the agent told her. “Names and locations. Please.”