This story is set in a far future, in a alternate reality where the USSR achieved global conquest.
***
Smoke melded with the vapor rising from the heated pools of crimson crude oil. Putrid industrial stink polluted the atmosphere, and rendered the frozen soil to a toxified stretch of snow covered desert.
“Iskhei, wanna see something sick?” The Synthborg pointed to a gruesome lump, half buried in the snow.
“No.” Iskhei quickly dragged his smoke, and started on the next, wanting to kill the unpleasant numbness he felt at the back of his skull.
The mechanical limbs of the cyborg kept motioning him to come closer, to examine the horrendous sight. Perpetual darkness in the sky above seemed to grow blacker, as the hi beams of the drones hovering above lit up the ground. Not wanting to be caught on camera not doing his job, he moved over to see what the Synthborg was gesturing.
Crimson lens eyes widened with delight, as he pointed out a mangled, green body of a teenage girl. Her eyes pallid and gray, her skin a mutant tinge of green. Arms scratched to the bone, and blackening, pinkish-red innards spilling in the snow.
On the tatters of her shirt, you could see read through the blood and body fluids the words, Free Planet, Now!
“Eco terrorist scum.” Iskhei flicked his nearly finished cigarette at the body, managing to launch the burning end into her eye. The gray color blackened to the heat, and seemed to melt out of the socket.
“Sick dude!” The Synthborg didn’t like that level of disrespect for the dead, even though he wanted to show off the young woman’s mutilated corpse.
“What’s sick you mechanical, cripple freak, is we even bother looking into the death of these, insubordinates.” Iskhei held his tongue as he feared if he said anything further questioning the Bureau would keep him investigated.
Already he imagined he’d received a call, questioning his loyalty. The implant in his left eye began to flash a screen, showing he had an incoming call.
‘I knew it…’ calmly he pressed his hand to the tattoo around his right ear, and spoke.
“Hello…no sir…yes sir…never sir…it was spoken not as a criticism sir, but for my distaste of those of that lifestyle…understood…right away. Over and out.”
‘Fuck.’
“I have to go now, gather up the bodies, the tech lab will want to examine them.” Iskhei looked to the sky and saw the drones start going further away, taking aerial photos of the surrounding area.
Quickly he calculated they were out of sight of him and the Synthborg.
“Right away—” the cyborg responded, “—I’ll make sure they get—.”
“Shut up.” Iskhei pulled out his pistol from his overcoat. “Give me all your cigarettes, now.” The words were spoken as a deep whisper, bringing forth all menace he could put in those quiet demands.
After an initial shock, the Synthborg went from stunned to grinning wildly. Then he laughed, almost pointing as if to point out his stupidity. “We don’t need them.” the cyborg gleefully sneered. “They lobotomized us during the procedure, we can’t even sleep anymore.”
Iskhei didn’t know that, he felt almost embarrassed for his ignorance, as the sensation at the back of him got worse.
“Fuck you.” out of pure exasperation and anger, he smashed the butt of his pistol into one of the electric eyes of the Synthborg, causing sparks, and shards of glass to spray out.
The cyborg reeled, and quite laughing, as shocks of pain went through his system, leaving him clutching at his eye in agony. “You asshole! I’m going to report this!”
“To who? No video evidence.” Iskhei pointed to the sky, revealing they are out of sight of the cameras.
A famous saying known by all is this, if it ain’t on video, it didn’t happen, unless the Bureau says otherwise—and Iskhei was the only one they would tend to believe.
The Synthborg swore at his bad luck, and went off to do as he ordered, fearing Iskhei would write in a report he defended himself against a cyborg attack, which he was going to do anyway. Getting into his vehicle that was parked at the far end of the snowfield, he got inside, and started its engine.
Programming in his destination, he checked his tattooed digital watch on his wrist, 01:00, a new metric leap was starting, which meant his timeline was sped up, to meet the new standards in time. Everything was going to be rushed, and accounted for, every spare second was owed to the Bureau now, another thing he had to account for in his reports.
Before he could investigate the deaths of the degenerates, he had to set his console in his car to attend a mandatory examination at the Medical Agency.
His handlers have noticed he has been “too outspoken” of late, and the recent call he received cemented the probe in his psyche. A few seconds he looked into the empty darkness on the road ahead, before he engaged his vehicle to follow the coordinates.
Putting his seat down, he pulled out his last cigarette from its case, and lit it, inhaling its brain softening vapors. The Brain People have been doubling their efforts to break through to the population, and the scarcity of the mandated cigarettes have led to strict rationing.
Psychotic breakdowns, quarantine, curfews, and full one purges have kept the problem at bay. Some dessenters have started to lull themselves with illegal music, using black market devices, but Iskhei despised such weak solutions. All one needed to listen to on the radio anymore, was the static of empty air.
In fact he turned the radio on in his console, turning it to a channel of nothing but the crackle of empty air. This and the chemicals in his cigarette, lulled him into a sleepless stupor, as his eyes focused on the black ceiling of his vehicle.
***
“Run…jog…walk…run…run…job…run…walk…walk…jog…walk…run…get off.” the doctor ordered Iskhei as he got off the treadmill breathing hard, and feeling his legs tremble from all the effort.
Wearing a tracksuit that was supplied to him, he had undergone hours of exhausting, and cruel exercises. From changing momentum while running on a treadmill, lifting weights while standing on blocks of ice, and attempting to run at the bottom of the swimming pool, while submerged.
All of this, Iskhei knew wasn’t for his health, it was to test his patience, his ability to remain stoic, emotionless, and most of all obedient. Questions were a lethal thing for an agent to have, so is any trace of sardonic wit, that would have an asset sent to the incineration chamber.
Panting loudly, Iskhei felt as if tar was sticking to his throat and lungs, as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Alright up on the bench.” commanded the doctor, which he obliged with a sudden leap up, landing on his backside on the hard metallic examination table.
Then the Doctor employed an instrument with a variety of lenses, which he used to look into his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. After writing down on his plastic sheet of electric paper, the doctor lowered a large, metallic helmet from the ceiling, attached to a long mechanical limb.
Looking as if the dome of the helmet was covered in batteries, Iskhei knew from past examinations, they were checking for Psychic Contamination, to see if he was falling under influence from the Brain People.
Strapping his head into it, the doctor told him as he went out to “hold still, and don’t breathe.”
Before the doctor left he suddenly remembered something and turned back to put a hard, rubbery object, attached to the helmet, into Iskhei’s mouth. “Remember don’t breathe.”
Iskhei said nothing, he knew what was going to happen.
A deep thought scan was a violating, and painful procedure that would send a plasma shock through his brain that would imprint all his thoughts and memories to be cataloged. Albeit not all thoughts can be read, the bureau has made a system that gives them the excuse to carry psychological dossiers on assets and the general populace.
Iskhei began to count in his mind as he held his breath, waiting for the instant of excruciating pain to run through his skull.
‘5…6…7…8…9—’
***
It's a cold winter night. The lights inside a two story house were dim, as the family inside were celebrating their last Festive Holiday of the Metric. Presents were opened before the roaring fire, hot food was eaten, and the child was given chocolate to eat, much more than the previous years.
However once the sweets were consumed, the blonde haired, blue eyed boy, with chocolate smeared on his face, looked down sullenly at his crooked, and misshapen leg.
“Dad…—” the boy tearfully began to ask, “—why don’t you want me?” He was 7, too young to understand the cruelty of the real world.
“Son…” Iskhei didn’t know what to say, the boy was sentenced to be sent to the Incineration Chamber, there was nothing he could do, the house was being watched, and all they could do was give his son the best time of his life. However the looming doom of his son’s life, had made his wife tremble more severely as time went by.
22:57…22:58…22:59…at 23:00 they would come to the door, and send his child to be burned alive, since they don’t waste anesthesia on the worthless crippled and mentally useless.
“Aren’t you going to do anything!” The mascara smeared face of his wife poked through the doorway, filled with sorrow and hate. “Are you going to let them take our baby away!?”
Suddenly their son started to cry, a fearful, soul shaking cry, that had the mother run to him to hold tightly, pushing Iskhei aside.
“Don’t worry baby, don’t worry.” his wife kept stroking his head, trying to soothe her child’s worry.
Iskhei looked out the window, and saw two men, in long black trench coats, started heading towards their front door. The van that was going to take away their son was here. He had to do something, anything, but what could he do?
Then a thought came to him, a desperate idea that he believed was the only mercy he could show his child.
Burning alive was not a pleasant thing to do, but what Iskhei could do was relatively short. Rushing upstairs, he had to get it, before they reached the door, before they were compelled to break in, and take matters into their own hands. Running back down, he saw his front door opened by the sinister looking men, they stopped and looked at him realizing what was in his hands.
Before they could process what they could do, he went into the next room, and what followed was a startling crack, followed by the whaling of a banshee.
“You bastard! You evil bastard!” a shrill voice cried, as the two men rushed into the living room to see a child lying dead on the floor, his forehead blasted open with a gunshot.
Then standing over him, were his parents, the father trying to keep his wife was tearing at his face with her long, sharp nails as she kept screaming at him, with her high pitched hysteric hatred.
“You devil! You devil! You killed him, you killed my son!”
Blood covered his face, and dripped from her fingernails, as the scene seemed to black, and fade away into white, as if it were film were burned away by the heat of a projector.
***
Iskhei laid down, completely braindead on a metallic gurney. The icy chill of the metal on his skin didn’t register in his lifeless mind. Only the goosebumps on his skin showed him the instinctual understanding of the unsettling sensation.
Finally having the time, the Doctor returned, and he brought with him a large obelisk of wires and glass. Rolling it next to the gurney, he pulled out a pair of needle-like prongs with wires running out the back.
Slicing through the flesh of his head, on either side of where the skull met the spine, making sure both connected to the bone. Magnetism in the metal made them stick to the nerve rich bone tendril, as blood dripped from the open wounds in Iskhei’s head.
Then the doctor dialed up the machine to 6 on all scales from intensity, and duration, then he flipped switches on the machine, until he turned the key on its front. Instantly Iskhei’s eyes lit up, and his body jolted, shooting up in the air, and sending his limbs flailing about, as air rapidly came in and out of him, as life returned to his brain.
Letting out a pained scream of resurrection, Iskhei sat up, and started to retch as foam, and snot poured down his face.
“Welcome back to the world of the living.” the Doctor said sardonically. “Your clothes are in the other room, get dressed and get back to your current assignment.” After his mocking words, he spoke in a cold tone. Swiftly he tore the prongs out of Iskhei’s head, and took out a tube of disinfectant ointment. Applying the green gel to both bloody holes, it started to burn after a while, sizzling, and killing all infectious germs, and closing the wounds.
“Now we do the psyche test.” the Doctor went to get his notes, as Iskhei still trembled from the shock to his formerly undead system.
Before the first question was asked, Iskhei came to his senses, and started to remember where he was, and what happened. Just like the last time he went through that agonizing procedure.
“Are you listening, Iskhei?” the Doctor asked, as if he was reciting some often rehearsed procedure.
“Yes.” Iskhei felt his legs tremble, but kept his composure in his voice.
“Who do you work for?”
“The Government, Bureau Of Investigations.”
The Doctor loudly scribbled down his notes, obviously taking into account more than just the answers he gave, but his current mental and physical condition.
Question and answer were exchanged, as soon as the question was asked, it was answered promptly without hesitation—until the Doctor asked the one question Iskhei couldn’t answer properly.
“When was your son born?” The question hung in the air without an answer for nearly a minute.
“I don’t have a son…” the answer made the back of his skull feel empty, he nearly fell backwards from the lack of weight in his head.
“...Interesting response.” The Doctor spent quite some time filling in his notes. “Next question, when did you divorce your wife?”
“I was never married.” Iskhei fell off, as if he was falling into the chasm that was opening in his own mind.
“Very…interesting.” the Doctor gave a knowing smile to his subject, as if he was the only aware of a really cruel joke. “Last question, what caliber did you shoot your son with?”
Iskhei’s right eyelid flinched as if it were stung by a bee. “I never had a son.”
There was a brief moment of silence as the Doctor leaned in close, to read his face, as if he were trying to detect any lies.
Finally a foxy smile came across the Doctor’s face. “Alright then, you can get dressed in the next room, and continue with your assignments.”
“Wait—!” Iskhei grabbed the Doctor's arm, trying to stop him from getting away. “—Can I get more cigarettes? I ran out, and I have a long drive ahead of me.”
The Doctor sucked his teeth, and shook his head in feigned sympathy. “Well you see Agent Iskhei, while you were…unconscious, we performed a procedure to make it so you no longer have to worry about psychic influences.”
A look of utter horror was in Iskhei eyes, as he realized what was done to him, and he couldn’t stop himself from showing utter disgust in his voice.
“You lobotomized me?!”
“Only the back part. We were worried it would…well in any case you don’t need cigarettes anymore, now get dressed—” he put his hand on the Agent’s shoulders, “—you got work to do.”
***
Iskhei left the Medical Facility, his body was light, but his mind felt as if it was sliced in half and the cavity that was left was filled with cotton. Climbing down the back stairs, he saw the facility was built next to a frozen lake, whose ice surface was covered in a thin layer of snow.
A pale moonlight white illuminated the lake, and that side of the building, it came from a street light high above. Looking down the steps, he saw in the bend on the stairs, the Doctor, the one who performed those tests on him inside, leaning on the railings, enjoying a nicotine dripping cigarette.
Ishkei looked around, and saw there were no cameras.
‘Good.’
Slowly, he went down the stairs, and leaned against the railings, right next to the Doctor, who looked at him with mild attention.
“Took a while for you to get dressed, didn’t it?” the Doctor blew the smoke in his face.
“Not longer than most.” he gestured to the cigarette. “Did you think of performing that procedure on yourself?”
The Doctor smirked, and took a long drag from his cigarette, and flicked the smoldering butt down into the snow. Blowing out the smirk, he gave a mean spirit smirk.
“That’s only for government dogs, like you. Uznay svoe mesto, comrade.” Reaching into his lab coat pocket, the Doctor retrieved a large cigarette case.
Iskhei the moment he saw the case, punched the Doctor hard enough to break his nose, and send him staggering against the railing, and at the same time snatching the cigarette case from his hold.
Tucking the case away in his own coat, Iskhei then grabbed the Doctor by his belt, and lifted him up.
Before he could recover from the dazing blow, as blood flowed down his bulbous nose, staining his thick mustache, the Doctor’s eyes widened as he saw the white ground below. Letting out a frightened scream, he was flung over the side, and plummeted down below, where he crashed through the ice.
The water gurgled, and rippled before it went calm.
‘The water flow must’ve carried away the poor bastard.’
Looking around to make doubly sure he wasn’t recorded, he started to kick the bars on the railing, so anyone investigating would conclude the Doctor fell through to his death by accident.
After setting the scene, Iskhei took out a cigarette, putting it in his mouth, he lit it with a box of matches, and inhaled the sweet, harshness of the chemical laced dried plant. Closing his eyes, he savored the smoke, and exhaled with a smile on his face.
“Umri khorosho, Comrade.” Iskhei saluted the hole in the ice, and went down the stairs to where he parked the vehicle.
Before he got in, he heard a ring in his ear, he put his hand to his ear tattoo, and answered the call.
“Hello…yes sir…yes sir…I’m on my way now sir…I’ll read it on the way…no sir, it didn’t hurt at all. Yes sir, over and out.”
Iskhei got into the vehicle, just as the snow began to fall, and as he sat in his car, breathing in the brain soothing smoke, he read over the documents sent to his ocular implant interface.
The documents indicated the source of the deadly bootleg music, it was stolen from a government laboratory by a disgruntled, and radicalized member of the Agency Of Sciences.
After it was reported his son was a physical cripple, his son was to be abstracted from familiar care, and incinerated as per policy, on the care of the useless. The child was to be abstracted at 23:00 on the Last Festive Holiday of the Metric.
A painful slicing sensation went through the inside of his skull, as he read the circumstances of the Scientist’s rebellion.
Reading on, apparently when the agents showed up to take the child, the Scientist shot his own son in the head, to which his wife viciously attacked him, scarring his face for life. In the aftermath his wife was sent to Reeducation for her behavior towards the circumstances of her son's plan of care, where she later died of an unspecified accident.
The Scientist was isolated in his laboratory till he finished his research into altering the human brain. Where he escaped, and has since been altering government devices to murder segments of the population, vulnerable to using black market devices.
The rest of the report was just speculation on the motive, and a list of probable locations, and the status of whether they had been checked or not by other agents. However as he looked at the map on his eye screen, he seemed to remember something, in his brain there was a throbbing nostalgia that told him none of these is where he was hiding.
In his mind’s eye, images overlapped over the images from his ocular lenses, to a dilapidated building, that was sited miles from the nearest city center. There he saw the Scientist, Professor Darwin Marxes, despite the name being absent in the files, he knew his name, just like he knew the coordinates to that building.
According to his orders he was to be taken alive, but Iskhei felt sickened in his guts when he thought about what procedures they’d use to re-educate him to be a loyal citizen. Once his vehicle started to drive ahead, after the coordinates were set, he sat back in his seat, and began smoking his newly acquired cigarettes.
Soon noticing as he was finishing his first they were extra strength, the yellowish liquid stained his fingers at the touch, but they calmed him, coddling him in a cradle of muted emotions and disturbing thoughts. Turning on the radio, he set it for empty static, and looked out into the darkness of the nearly perpetual night.
***
Parking a couple of miles away from the building, Iskhei sent in a digital report, saying he located the rogue scientist, and would apprehend before turning him over to the extraction team.
As he walked up the cracked, and snow buried sidewalk, he looked down the walkway leading to the condemned building. Feeling an urge not to go inside, Iskhei shook his head, and took out another cigarette, hoping to smoke out such abominable thoughts from turning him away from his mission.
Lit cigarette in his mouth, he pulled out his Russian Mauser pistol, and walked towards the door. It appeared to be nailed shut, from the boards nailed across it, but as soon as he turned the knob he saw it give away, swinging inwardly, showing the board was nailed to the doorframe. Entering the dark building, he saw the windows were blocked by boards, and drawn curtains, a layer of filth was in the air, and despite his ocular implants giving him night vision, there was a distortion in his vision.
Perhaps it was a jammer, or he was dealing with a malfunction? He wasn’t sure, all he knew was as soon as he crept inside, he could hear quieted movements down below, in the basement.
Making not a sound, he descended the cement stairs, and as he descended he heard the sounds of hurried movements. As he reached the bottom he saw a hallway, and at the far end was a door, with a bright yellow light on the other side. Through the hazy glass of the door’s window, he saw a dark silhouette moving around, in haste.
Approaching the door, Iskhei butted out his cigarette on his tongue, so the smell wouldn’t be detected. Pistol raised, he approached it, remaining as silent as the grim reaper stalking an old man.
Reaching the door, he found it ajar, so he slowly, quietly pulled it open, and saw in the light of an old oil lamp, Professor Darwin Marxes hurriedly burning his research papers.
He tossed piles of paper in a garbage can set aflame, as he tried to stuff various contraptions, and the black market music devices in cardboard boxes.
Before Iskhei fully committed to entering the room, both men’s eyes met, as the Agent stood in the doorway, looking at what he felt for a moment was his twin. Not in appearance, but of the mind, as he knew what the other man was thinking, even without reading the shock on his face.
“Don’t move, paren, they’ll be picking you up in about a half hour, no need to be drastic…—” he reached into his coat and pulled out the cigarette case. “—Smoke?” Before the Scientist could respond, Iskhei answered for him, “oh that’s right, you don’t smoke.” he put the cigarette into his own mouth and lit it with a match. “Don’t bother, I know you aren’t going to do it.”
He was referring to the box cutter that was on the counter to Professor Marxes’s left. Even before he started eyeing the sharp instrument, Iskhei knew he wasn’t going to reach for it.
“You don’t have the stomach for blood, not mine, and definitely not your own.”
A moment of confusion behind the man’s glasses faded to a dumbfounded realization. As he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“Oh for pity's sake…they did it, didn’t they?” The question was met with Iskhei’s own confused look.
“Did what?” Iskhei could guess what they did, but he didn’t want to think about what was done to his brain.
“You had a medical examination recently, right?” Marxes had a look of pity on his face for the agent sent to detain him, as if he knew something sick and horrible.
“That’s none of your concern. Sit down, and keep quiet.” Iskhei didn’t want to be told what happened, he wanted to flow down the rivers of denial.
“You know, what they did to you. That’s what the Government does, it…ruins us, it destroys us, please understand, what I’ve done, it was to wake people up, we’re all asleep. They drug us, poison our minds, and—” tears started to form in the Professor’s eyes. “—they…destroy our children.”
“You shot your son.” Iskhei accused, not wanting his captive to let slip any dangerous truths.
“You know why I did though…you know…because they—” Iskhei before the words could be spoken, he reacted as naturally as blocking a punch, or swatting an annoying insect that flew past his ear, and fired four lethal shots into the Professor’s chest.
Blood burst from the four holes in his chest, as his face went pale, and his eyes rolled up into his head, as he fell onto the floor, twitching painfully before going still.
“Ebat!” Iskhei murdered a subject he needed to bring back alive. As he looked at the dead form of the Scientist on the floor, he realized how it was all intentional. Marxes lacked the courage to end his own life, so goaded his captor to do it for him, allowing him a relatively painless death, than what the Bureau Of Corrections would do to him if he was in their custody.
The same fate the Professor would suffer, Iskhei would have to face if they find out he lost control, he had to cover up crime. Swiftly he came up with a plan, as he saw the box cutter, and the burning garbage fire, and instantly it all fit into place.
Rushing to the box cutter, he took the blade in his hand, and started to carve into the Professor’s body. Removing his overcoat, Iskhei tore off the Professor’s clothes, and started to slice around the four bullet holes.
They were deep, but with frantic slicing, he managed to widen the wounds enough to dig out the intact bullets. Pocketing the spent shells, he found a hand towel at a nearby workstation and wiped away the blood on his hands and did the best he could on his clothes.
After this he replaced his overcoat to cover the blood evidence on his clothes, then proceeded to set up a fire to burn away all the evidence. Feeding the fire more with paper, wooden chairs he smashed into tinder, he then searched for and found the gas pipe.
Luckily Professor Marxe made it so gas would be running in the building again, in order to provide heat for the building. Leaving the lab, he closed the door, and went into the hallway, where the gas pipe ran along the ceiling, finding a suitable place, he cautiously undid the screws on it, and with effort snapped open the pipe.
Then with all the speed he could muster, he left the building, running out the front door, and dashing down the sidewalk, taking refuge on the cement building next to the soon to be demolished house.
Before he could fully seek shelter, he felt a ground shaking explosion shake the ground beneath his feet. Nearly falling over, the explosion started with a tumultuous quack that followed by several other explosions. What followed was a loud roar of flame, Iskhei left his hiding place, and saw as the entire building was in flames, which was quickly spreading to the rest of the block.
Just as he walked out to look at the destruction he caused, he heard the rush of several vehicles rush ahead. Skidding on the snow covered roads, the vehicles formed a perimeter around the flames, as agents got out, and started to talk on their radio sets.
“Iskhei?! Where is Iskhei?!” a large man called out, as he gazed at the fire in utter shock.
“Right here.” Iskhei came forward, attempting to look calm and focused, the cigarette in his mouth helped.
“What happened?! Where is the Professor?!” The man was red faced, and flashed his credentials as head interrogator for the Bureau Of Internal Affairs.
“I assume he is in there.” Iskhei pointed to the fire, with an apathetic expression.
“Why didn’t you extract him?!” the Interrogator was flushed with rage.
“I was walking towards the building, as I stated in my report when I parked my vehicle, and started towards the destination when—” he gestured to the burning building to elaborate his point.
The large man was quiet, as he gauged the situation, then turned and gave a stern look to the Agent, with a scrutinizing glare. “So this happened as you were arriving?”
“Yes Sir.” Iskhei answered in the affirmative, giving no hesitation, or room for doubt in his words.
The Interrogator gave out a defeated sigh, and motioned to his men. “Somebody get the fire department out here, we need this fire out before it burns away all the evidence!”
The fire department was called, but before they could arrive, the fire steadily grew into a raging inferno that obliterated the Professor’s body to fragments of charred bone, erasing all traces of his research.
Iskhei filled out a report, attending several post mission meetings, where he was questioned forward and back on everything he had done. Inevitably the matter was dropped, whether he was believed or not didn’t matter. Fact it, there wasn’t any proof. Even his footprints in the snow were erased by the rush of agents to secure the scene, no one took any pictures, and there was no video proving or disproving his account.
***
Iskhei walked out of a Medical Facility, where he was put through another brain examination. Upon awakening he felt as disoriented as he was after his last examination, but this time he felt less, as if what was put into him before was removed. He had something removed from him before, but that time it was different, it was as if a sense of humanity was stripped from his brain.
Preferring his cold nihilism, Iskhei walked down the stairs, after leaving the building, and saw as he looked down caution tape streaked across the broken railings. Smirking as he remembered that night, he put one of his last few cigarettes into his mouth, and headed back to his vehicle.
Then he received a call from his ear tattoo, he answered it.
“Yes sir…yes…no…no, I haven’t seen the Doctor who did my last examination…I’m sure he’ll turn up…no…yes…yes…Understood, Over and Out.”
He ended the call, and with a gleeful smirk on his face, returned to his vehicle, where he climbed inside, and tuned into his favorite radio station, empty air static.
Setting the console on his dashboard to return to driving around, he continued to drag on his cigarette, as he laid his seat back, and blew smoke into the air. Feeling as close to happy as he could possibly be, secure in knowing he got away with it, away with everything.
These Iskhei story always leave me with questions and wanting more. Great job, dude.