Agrandov
20-09-2006, 16:08
Sergei Miklotov was not the kind of man to be sprinting through dense woodland in the early hours of the morning, but once again human nature proved just how adaptable it can be when his chance came. Branches lashed his face and roots caught his feet as he was covered in sweat, rain water and not a little blood. A shredded shirt and tattered dark blue BDUs were all that stood between him and the elements.
At 59 years old, Miklotov had just escaped after little under a decade of imprisonment. Mud covered his hands and feet as he found himself scrambling up a bank once more. Smooth bark offered not grip but blisters and sores as he propelled himself forward. Shadows lunged from swaying branches in the light of a full moon; a natural spotlight for his pursuers.
A baying howl came from behind, far too close for comfort. He turned quickly to see a Cleric and two tracker dogs - more hunting wolves than police sniffers - silhouetted on a hilltop. The howl was replied to, this time from in front, and Miklotov swung to the left and pelted forward. The earthy smell of upturned soil filled his nostrils as his senses were magnified by the adrenaline.
Gasping for breath, he realised he had been running for hours. Pains in his chest felt like the ticking of a clock. Or a time bomb, he thought, as his physical condition was far from acceptable.
He heard a crack, the whipping of a bullet and then the splitting of wood as splinters showered from a nearby tree. He swore, realising that until now he had banked on them wanting him alive. He also realised that the weapon had been an R7 Assault Rifle, one of his older designs.
Sergei had been a weapons designer for the Agrandov National Munitions Corporation, until that fateful day a decade ago that involved a Cleric's boot and his front door, followed by his prompt arrest for "Miscellaneous Heresy Crimes." Evidence had never surfaced, but that was trivial to the Holy Courts of Agrandov.
Without warning his vision was filled with the blue and grey armour of a Cleric, as he stepped calmly from behind a tree and drove his rifle stock into Sergei's stomach. A second blow found the back of his head and the old man blacked out, spread eagled in the mud. Another Cleric came out of the shadows, a rifle in one had and leash in the other.
'One dog? What happened?' asked the first.
'He caught the scent of something, damn near pulled my hand off.'
'Let third squad look for him, they were back there anyway.'
'What, there? There’s nothing, I've been on patrol two hours now.'
'Third squad took Sector P, and that's definitely it. I'll radio in, see what’s going on... but... no- there’s no reception?'
'That’s impossible, we can't be that far already, right?'
'I don't care how far this bastard ran tonight, you know the range on these things. Something's wrong.'
At 59 years old, Miklotov had just escaped after little under a decade of imprisonment. Mud covered his hands and feet as he found himself scrambling up a bank once more. Smooth bark offered not grip but blisters and sores as he propelled himself forward. Shadows lunged from swaying branches in the light of a full moon; a natural spotlight for his pursuers.
A baying howl came from behind, far too close for comfort. He turned quickly to see a Cleric and two tracker dogs - more hunting wolves than police sniffers - silhouetted on a hilltop. The howl was replied to, this time from in front, and Miklotov swung to the left and pelted forward. The earthy smell of upturned soil filled his nostrils as his senses were magnified by the adrenaline.
Gasping for breath, he realised he had been running for hours. Pains in his chest felt like the ticking of a clock. Or a time bomb, he thought, as his physical condition was far from acceptable.
He heard a crack, the whipping of a bullet and then the splitting of wood as splinters showered from a nearby tree. He swore, realising that until now he had banked on them wanting him alive. He also realised that the weapon had been an R7 Assault Rifle, one of his older designs.
Sergei had been a weapons designer for the Agrandov National Munitions Corporation, until that fateful day a decade ago that involved a Cleric's boot and his front door, followed by his prompt arrest for "Miscellaneous Heresy Crimes." Evidence had never surfaced, but that was trivial to the Holy Courts of Agrandov.
Without warning his vision was filled with the blue and grey armour of a Cleric, as he stepped calmly from behind a tree and drove his rifle stock into Sergei's stomach. A second blow found the back of his head and the old man blacked out, spread eagled in the mud. Another Cleric came out of the shadows, a rifle in one had and leash in the other.
'One dog? What happened?' asked the first.
'He caught the scent of something, damn near pulled my hand off.'
'Let third squad look for him, they were back there anyway.'
'What, there? There’s nothing, I've been on patrol two hours now.'
'Third squad took Sector P, and that's definitely it. I'll radio in, see what’s going on... but... no- there’s no reception?'
'That’s impossible, we can't be that far already, right?'
'I don't care how far this bastard ran tonight, you know the range on these things. Something's wrong.'