The New Day

[steven]

'He steps back, still growling a little bit to himself. He isn't a monster. He isn't a cold-blooded killer. He's no assasin, no serial killer. Just another Immortal, he just did NOT deal well with captivity at all. But suddenly the offer of another Immortal's head, possibly his freedom, and this strange twist about his past... he's unsure. He remembers his childhood, he was born in Texas, raised there, drafted for Korea and shot by the North Koreans. He was captured, died from the injury, then escaped because they weren't watching the ditch they threw him in. He CLEARLY remembers it all. Or does he...?'

If you want to give me his head, I don't care who he is, I'll take it if it means my freedom from this piss-pit. I'm not spending one more night in that cell, strapped down and drugged up by you bastards. Give me an hour for that tranq dart to wear off and I'll meet him. Just GET. ME. MY. SWORD.

[Blood and Roses]

"Of course, your sword." The Voice sounds amused. "I put in a requisition order with ESP, but it came back empty. Your sword wasn't in its evidence locker, conveniently missing from a locked box. I have a sneaking suspicion as to where it went, and will look into it personally. Until it is recovered, you can borrow one from Us, or go without."

The doors before Steven swing open to reveal the hall the guards had retreated down. The floor and walls are streaked with the blood of dead and dying soldiers being dragged away. The hall curves away from the room, with steel doors along either side.

"Come see me, Steven, and we'll talk about how we can secure your release." A sound like a phone being returned to its cradle clicks loudly, and it is obvious the Voice is done speaking.

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The poor security guard still attempts to coax Debbie from her perch on the window sill. Soft words and gentle exertion don't seem to garner much response. The man is growing frustrated, and reaches out to the girl yet again, a plea on his lips. In irritation he reaches to try to snatch Debbie's rag doll from her hands. He hoped that he could use the captured dolly to lead the child to safety.

[Debbie Grassfielder]

Debbie completely ignored the guard as the conversation between Steven and the broadcast system went on. She held back an irritated bark as the guard tried to soothe her with panicked whispers. She knew what she wanted to do, but clearly there were other plans in the works. For now she would stick with Key and the other patients, as it seemed Steven was due for an appointment.

When the guard reached for her doll, she turned an icy gaze at him. The conversation with Steven and the speaker was over, and no longer held her interest.

"I can move on my own, dimwit," she snarled. She got up with a sulk and let the guard show her the way out. She was still amazed by Steven's sheer power and precense of mind with all the drugs in his system. If she were to engage him again, she'd need to be better prepared...or let him kill the staff. Either way might be fun.

With one last look over her shoulder, she called out to Steven with a sweet girlish smile, "Don't die, mister!"

[Key Mischavitch]

Key heard everything.

She head each heartbeat quicken. Each footstep. Each haggard breath drawn in and out. The scent of aftershave and deodorant and blood. It was too much, too much to take in, she didn’t notice the guard charge at her, she felt the connection, he had jabbed something right into her gut. Key went down like a tone of bricks.

She clawed at the carpet, desperate to regain her breath after being winded. It was only Debbie’s screams of terror that brought Key out of her own misery. She lifted her head off the ground, only to see a boot clad foot come down on her face.

((Sorry guys, crappy post, just need to get back into the swing of things!))

[Blood and Roses]

The guards hussle the remaining prisoners out of the recreation room with weapons drawn, but the safety devices on them are active. Now that the imminent storm has calmed a bit, their primary goal is to move their charges from one location to another, not harm them (if it can be avoided). The guards bracket Debbie, two in front and two behind, a wary escort as she saunters away under her own strength, helmed heads cocking towards one another as she advises Steven against his own demise. They allow her to move down the hall, a path she treads with easy familiarity, until she reaches the final turn before the hall that leads to her room. They bar the way to her room, gesturing with their weapons that she should continue the way they were going. "That way, Miss," one of them says, his voice muffled by the full-cover riot helmet over his face. "Dr. Eirghart wants to see you."

Back in the rec room, three guards stand over Key as she struggles groggily to rise, two with weapons trained on Steven. One activates his microphone and orders a wheelchair (the last one a wreck from Steven's rampage). Another reaches carefully to her to help her up. They all keep a sharp eye on Steven, watchful for another violent outburst.

Agent Weaver observes the inmates and guards at a monitor bank hidden somewhere within the hive-like structure of the facility. He waits patiently to observe Steven's reaction to his offer, motionless. After a few minutes, he taps his earpiece sharply. "Liu. It's Xion." Weaver listens for a moment, nodding to himself. "Of course, my friend. Consider it a bonus for excellent workmanship." Weaver smiles at the font of platitudes spewing from Liu. "Actually, I do have more work for you. No, not for myself, this one's work-related. I'm not sure yet. The client has specific tastes. No, I won't need a catalogue. I'll get the order, you make it. Excellent." Weaver taps the earpiece again, smiling in satisfaction. Liu was his contact at the Forge, one of the most high-tech manufacture and synthesis labs in the world. Steven would have his sword, created with the most cutting edge (pun intended) techniques and materials on Earth. With certain... additions, of course.

[steven]

Alright. You have a deal. I take this guy's head, you give me a blade, and I leave. Or at least, set me free. I don't give a god DAMN about you're little science experiment fetish here, but you let these girls free too. I'm no animal. Just a freak who's really good at killin.

But I have very particular tastes. I need a katana, fourty inches from tip to pommel, Bushido styling, twelve inch handle. Ray skinned, Japanese cotton wrap, in dark brown. The blade must be unornamented, balance point must be exactly two and one half inches from the habaki, which must be brass, the kashiri, tsuba, and fuchi must be blackened bronze. Plain tsuba, round, unmarked. Kisaki must be one and two thirds inches.

The blade itself must be forged by HAND for it to hold meaning, and must contain no fewer then eight hundred folds. Once it has been forged, I will allow it for you to machine sharpen it, and request a new process I had heard was in development before I was captured, cryo-tempering. Get me this blade, and a scabbard blackened wood preferred, with a brass collar on it, and I will not kill another of your precious employees.

'He gives his little monologue, his "order" as it were, with a straight face, describing in such perfect and exacting detail about what his sword must be like. His people on accept the best for fighting each other, unless circumstances immediatly demand lesser weapons to defend themselves.'

[Debbie Grassfielder]

The guards bar the way to her room, gesturing with their weapons that she should continue the way they were going. "That way, Miss," one of them says, his voice muffled by the full-cover riot helmet over his face. "Dr. Eirghart wants to see you."

Debbie sighed. "Of course," she replied, continuing down the hall. She didn't feel very sociable at the moment, but she knew better than to question orders. The rag doll hung from her right fist by its arm. She usually let it stay in the rec room, it's not like she had any real use for it.

She felt the hum of the lab before it was even in view. It was always the same test equipment, no matter where they were. She knew they were already scanning her brain, downloading the system files and activity logs, analyzing the data and checking their numbers against previous data. She was starting to wonder if the "Doctor" and the team even needed her to be in the same room anymore, but she figured they enjoyed the one-on-one contact, asking questions they already knew most of the answers to to see if she would lie or make some uncharacteristic remark.

Once at the door, the guards knocked. Debbie rolled her eyes at the useless formality -- everyone in there would have known she was approaching regardless.

She turned to the guard to her left and smiled up at him, holding up the rag doll. "Here, Mister! Can you take Dahli for me while I visit the doctor? She doesn't like to watch what the doctor does to me, she gets squeamish." Debbie grinned at the guard, hoping to make him uncomfortable.

[Tiger]

'He's been a masterfull find. One of our greatest acheivements'.

'Theres still much we dont know, cant comprehend'.

'Simply part of the game, we'll introduce him to Grassfield soon, the interaction should be... Interesting'.

'Ms. Noble suggests his molecular structure may have changed in the last several years'.

'She's suggesting-',

'Yes. He may be displaced in time. But it's just a theory, i'm not sure how much validity our dear Ms. Noble sceintific research has anymore. The Fringe division has shifted latley, it may be time to mover her on.'

'Move her on? You know as well as i thats not possible'.

'I do'.

'What do we know'.

'Not much, We have established he has enhanced sense, beyond excellent hand eye coordination, He's able to communicate with animals on some level, but we havent established the extent yet.'

'His still unable to speak?'

'Yes. The scar and tissue damange suggests he once has his throat slit, multiple times, but X-Rays show that the damage isnt significant enough to hinder speech to the extent it has. He may have never learnt. He's a mystery'.

'Who gave him that mouse?'

'nobody knows. He found it.'

_________

Tiger could hear the two men talking behind the glass, but he was too interested in his new friend to listen in. They never said anything worse hearing anyway. All he knew was he wanted to see the sky again. The Little black and white mouse ran across his knuckles. he cooed gently to the mouse and it replied in turn, lifting it's front legs off his hands and stretching out his tiny twitching nose. Tiger wasnt like some of the other patients, he'd been allowed to keep his own clothes, choose what to wear, rather than be given a nightgown. They tried of course. He wore a long sleeved tshirt that was three sized two big, red and black stripeds. black jeans. He wasnt allowed shoes, so he was barefoot. Tiger had sandy blonde hair, cut unevenly. His eyes were a peircing yellow. It was hard to tell his age, He was boy, maybe no older than 13, maybe much younger.

'Tiger.'

A voice asked over the intercom, Tiger didnt answer, instead he foucsed on the mouse.

'Would you like to make a friend? a real friend'.

The Man asked. Tiger continued to grunt at the mouse, hunched over, almost fearfully now. He slowly moved to the corner of the room, huddling protectivley.