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7 Days
Chapter 1:
The clocktower had struck thirteen. Right on time for the Collector.
Dragging his item by the head through the barren, stone cold pavement of Ground Zero, the Collector spared no time to delay— thankfully, the item was another top-priority delivery for his master. The Collector promptly entered the main lobby of the Mansion; while his item remained sedated, he crouched down to strip away every piece of contraband from his item. Clothing (save for the underwear), weapons, ammunition, currency (which were saved by the Master of the Mansion).
“Your package has arrived, Master,” the Collector waved to the surveillance camera, his voice distorted and static from his black air-filtered gas mask.
“Well done, Collector,” said the Master, his voice was elderly yet wicked in tone. “Bring the item to me, and we'll commence interrogation.”
The Collector finally began to cradle the item into his arms, the weight of its clothing would simply overencumber him otherwise. While top-priority deliveries came with high-reward compensations, it was a fragile package each time. He required utmost methodical care for the items involved, ensuring they were in pristine condition— both prior to and after retrieval. Any damage would deduct his final payment depending on the severity, save for the grime and hygiene, which were default blemishes according to the Master's guidelines.
The masked man in a beige trench coat passed through a gritty hallway, some sparks from electrical wires paired with flickering lights precariously dangling above illuminated the stairway. Elevators were seldom maintained by staff members; even at its most operable, one was trapped midway through the lift, never to be heard from again. No disposal into the Mansion's Eraser room, just a catacomb of skeletal remnants past the point of decomposition.
The Collector moved from one floor to the next, passing through workers in blue overalls. He spared no time for idle talk; these days, the word ‘talk’ was a foreign language for Ground Zero.
Chapter 2:
“Not going to answer, are you?” Master Hemmings spoke, watching the kidnapped man through his monocle. Squirming and grunting in his chair, his arms were bound by leather shackles behind the spindles, but was unwavering in Hemmings' attempt to make his test subject confess. Twiddling with his bushy, grey moustache, he leaned forward with his wooden cane; that cheery, posh demeanour sharply turned into a threatening glare. “Very well, then... if you won't tell me, I'm sure you will to this friendly fellow.”
The Collector towered over the hostage, clutching a corroded crowbar by the shaft. He hovered the claw closer to the victim's face; The Collector's insatiable desire to maul the bound and naked man into a pool of gore became more fervent behind his mask. “So, you're the militant leader? Pathetic...”
© William Robert Death
#storytelling #story #Science #Dystopia
The clocktower had struck thirteen. Right on time for the Collector.
Dragging his item by the head through the barren, stone cold pavement of Ground Zero, the Collector spared no time to delay— thankfully, the item was another top-priority delivery for his master. The Collector promptly entered the main lobby of the Mansion; while his item remained sedated, he crouched down to strip away every piece of contraband from his item. Clothing (save for the underwear), weapons, ammunition, currency (which were saved by the Master of the Mansion).
“Your package has arrived, Master,” the Collector waved to the surveillance camera, his voice distorted and static from his black air-filtered gas mask.
“Well done, Collector,” said the Master, his voice was elderly yet wicked in tone. “Bring the item to me, and we'll commence interrogation.”
The Collector finally began to cradle the item into his arms, the weight of its clothing would simply overencumber him otherwise. While top-priority deliveries came with high-reward compensations, it was a fragile package each time. He required utmost methodical care for the items involved, ensuring they were in pristine condition— both prior to and after retrieval. Any damage would deduct his final payment depending on the severity, save for the grime and hygiene, which were default blemishes according to the Master's guidelines.
The masked man in a beige trench coat passed through a gritty hallway, some sparks from electrical wires paired with flickering lights precariously dangling above illuminated the stairway. Elevators were seldom maintained by staff members; even at its most operable, one was trapped midway through the lift, never to be heard from again. No disposal into the Mansion's Eraser room, just a catacomb of skeletal remnants past the point of decomposition.
The Collector moved from one floor to the next, passing through workers in blue overalls. He spared no time for idle talk; these days, the word ‘talk’ was a foreign language for Ground Zero.
Chapter 2:
“Not going to answer, are you?” Master Hemmings spoke, watching the kidnapped man through his monocle. Squirming and grunting in his chair, his arms were bound by leather shackles behind the spindles, but was unwavering in Hemmings' attempt to make his test subject confess. Twiddling with his bushy, grey moustache, he leaned forward with his wooden cane; that cheery, posh demeanour sharply turned into a threatening glare. “Very well, then... if you won't tell me, I'm sure you will to this friendly fellow.”
The Collector towered over the hostage, clutching a corroded crowbar by the shaft. He hovered the claw closer to the victim's face; The Collector's insatiable desire to maul the bound and naked man into a pool of gore became more fervent behind his mask. “So, you're the militant leader? Pathetic...”
© William Robert Death
#storytelling #story #Science #Dystopia
