Neonlichtläufer [Closed]

[Stanmore]

Central Europe. 1993. The south of the country had become a wasteland, a torn-down dystopia. Cities were abandoned, left to rot, hugh skyscrapers once occupied were now hollow and dead, their roots crumbling with filth, disease, burned-out cars and tired neon lights. The city was a no-go zone, and except for the occasional PG (Police-Guard) patrol, no one entered.

Except today.

A hand caught the softness of skin with a harsh slap, as a large man motioned for the woman sitting on a chair to wake up. He’d dumped her in a small cage a few hours prior to this moment in time, although she had been knocked out for the duration and had thus barely stirred at all. The point of impact on her cheek had went a dull shade of red that was already fading as he pulled his hang out of the cage. His lips formed in to a smirk, one that housed a million-and-one cruel intentions. The woman had no idea what was going to happen to her.

He was a hulking man, a large body of mass and muscles. The body of a lumberjack. A proper man. Hair on his arms that stood up on end, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The top few buttons of the dull green jumpsuit were undone, mainly due to the lack of them. It had once been issued by the central European military, but that was a long time ago. Whether he had worn it in a past life, or simply found it would remain unanswered. His hair was brown, with thick blonde patches dotted around the top. There was no style to it, and calling it a “mess” would have been the most appropriate term. A stubble had matured, deep bags under his eyes – perhaps from a lack of sleep? He leaned forward, his brown boots clunking on the weak wooden floor of the small room. The jumpsuit was filthy.

“Wake up.” The Hunter quietly snapped, grabbing her chin and moving her head up to the metal of the cage. From the wrinkles, first guesses would have been a man in his forties – or perhaps a thirty year old that hadn’t been friends with the biology of aging. He grunted as he shook her head a little, forgetting his deep words of German would be a puzzle to her.

Her attire would further complicate things, and considering she would not have a single clue of what he was telling her, he figured actions would speak clearer than words. Her body had been shed of her previous clothing, and replaced with a pink/purple magenta-coloured fabric that stuck to her skin like glue. The rear zip of the stretchy-material was jammed, and unable to be opened without a small key that the Hunter guarded. On her feet were white ankle boots with a heel size most people would think was far-too impractical to be running in.

A small, metal device was wrapped around her leg, just above the left boot. More on that later.

 

[Isis]

Nadejda awoke groggily. Everything seemed so distant and fuzzy and- shit. Fuck. She'd gotten in it this time- fucked with the wrong damn people. Having a poker match with the leader of a Russian slave cartel was never good news- especially for a woman. Especially a woman like her. She'd been leader of a clean operation- working her way up the Russian Mob one body at a time. Each job done with discretion and punctuality; every single body disposed of with as little fuss as necessary- no incriminating evidence. Ever. Fuck, but she was good at her job. Had been good at her job. Until she'd let her pride get in the way. Dimitri had called her a bitch. So what? People did that all the time, even when she was about to put a bullet through their brain. But she couldn't just kick Dimitri's sorry ass. No,that would be against the code. She just had to humiliate him. So she'd challenged him to a game of poker...

And then she'd gone and won. With a flush.

Fuck it, but for once Nadejda didn't really like winning. Apparently Dimitri took it rough, too. Poor little bastard. She tried to smirk- and winced in pain. Ow. That shit hurt. It felt like she'd been eating glass . . . speaking of which, she was damned thirsty. Hungry, too. And why was it so- oh. Her eyes were still closed. Fuckin' shit, things were bad when you thought the lights were out. She wasn't normally that much of an idiot, but what could you expect? The girl had been stuck in a cage for the last . . . However many hours. Her deep black hair was a complete mess- curls mussed and falling across her pale face. Her young face. A face that seemed too innocent for a mobster.

Speaking of which, some filth was touching her face. Fantastic. Nadejda blinked once- twice- tried to focus in on who and why and what was happening. There was a man . . . A sick-looking man . . . and she was in a cage. And there was a light, and she was- what the hell had they dressed her in? Blessed Mother Mary, this was too much. She almost laughed- but then she realized the man was speaking. Speaking in a language she didn't understand. "Wh-what the hell . . ." Her voice was small in the large room, small and rough. So she cleared her throat and tried again, those white-blue eyes and dark black brows scrunching up at her captor. "What the hell is going on? Where am I? Where's Dimitri?" Nadejda coughed. It hurt like hell to talk, but she was pleased to hear a bit of authority in her voice. Looking down at herself, the Russian woman cringed internally.

Where was she, anyways? Looking around . . . The dead lands, for sure, but what part? How far in was she? How close to civilization? What did the bastard with the fucked up hair want with her, and why the hell was there a little metal thing on her leg? Her leg. Another internal cringe.

God, she fucking hated the color pink.

 

[Stanmore]

The Hunter ignored what ever she said, understanding the name Dimitri and that was about it. He had no time for small talk, and he could already guess what she was talking about anyway. Questions, demanding answers, a feeling of confusion and uncertainty. She'd noticed what she was wearing, probably even saw the metal tag on her leg. It was well known that some people in the organised crime trade enjoyed toying with those that had pissed them off. Or, there were people like him, who took on the contract and bought victims to hunt and enjoy. Nadejda was one of those unlucky women. She had gotten involved with the wrong person, and although he wasn't sure exactly what she had done, he knew that her fate lay down to him. A fate unknown.

He crouched down – as the height of the cage prevented her from standing up – and kept himself at her level. “I know you don’t know what I’m saying, but I don’t care. I’m going to tell you anyway. You’re mine. I can do what ever I want with you. And I’ve already decided. In a minute’s time, I’m going to open the cage door and you’re going to run. Then I’ll give you a five minute head-start, and I’ll come chasing after you. My gun over there – you can see it, can’t you? – is loaded with tranquiliser darts. As soon as one of them hits you, it’s going to take effect right away. You’ll start to freeze up, and those pretty little legs of yours are going to start opening up by themselves. And you’re going to get wet – and that’s when you’re mine.”

The way the cage was constructed meant there were two entrances. The one on the other side would be the one that would open, and it opened up to the destroyed world outside. The magenta was obviously designed to make her stick out and give him an advantage, rather than dressing her in a dark coloured outfit that would make her difficult to spot – especially when night-time came around. The device gave him some control, and every five minutes would begin to beep wildly to alert her present position to him. It prevented Nadejda from hiding in one spot for too long.

 

[Isis]

Nadejda tried to listen, really tried to understand. But she couldn’t. Mother fucker, he was . . . creepy. That was the only way to describe the sick feeling he gave her. That was the only appropriate word to name the way he looked at her. Creepy. Nadejda shuddered involuntarily.

The way he moved and crouched gave her the feeling that she wasn’t his first captive. He was too familiar with the height of the cage, to routine in the rough patterns of his speech. And then he pointed at something; a gun. Not anything with bullets, though. The clip was too narrow for that. Too large for pellets . . . fucking hell, she had no clue what she was into. When Nadejda got her hands on Dimitri, she was going to cut his balls off and make him eat them. And she would. She had to. Even if she had to run across the barren landscape that awaited her, she’d to do it.

As the Hunter finally grew silent, Nadejda inspected what was behind her—what the hell? Was he setting her . . . Oh, no. No. The gun, her bright coloring. It clicked. She was sport. It explained the gadget on her leg, too. Some sort of tracking device, something he’d use to find her, most likely. After all, he’d probably paid a pretty penny for her skin. Letting her out unwarranted would just cost more money.

While crouched in the cage, Nadejda wondered at her own calm. Maybe it was the years she spent on the streets? Maybe she was just in shock? Maybe the full weight of the situation hadn’t settled in? Whatever the reason, she still retained hope. Still felt a little impervious to whatever plans the creep had set; still felt a little untouchable. After all, she’d be able to out run him, right? She’d be able to hide, certainly. Slowly, she twisted back to her captor, that face of hers managing a look of defiance despite her position. He wanted her to run? Bring it on.

“Fuck you.” The words were nearly spat. She smiled. No translation would be needed for that message, unless the man was exactly as dense as he looked.

 

[Stanmore]

Well. There was a hint of realisation in her eyes that suggested that she had finally grasped the seriousness of the situation. The help of the gun was probably what tipped her over the edge. Good. He was glad. He didn’t want her to be still sitting in the cage when he opened the door and let her out. Not that she knew she was getting a head start, although she could probably guess she would. What would be the fun if he leant out the window and sniped her as she made her first steps? No. She’d get to run to begin with. And then he’d let her see how far she’d go before making his move.

“Well Nadeja. Better get your running shoes on.” He sniggered to himself, shaking his head as if he found himself to be the funniest guy on the planet right now. The controls for the cage were on the nearest side on the upper right-hand corner. A small control panel with two buttons. One to close, and one to open. His thumb rested gently against the circular button that would open the metal door up, and stepped back. There was no danger that she could just jump out and strangle him, the only way for her to go was out of the building and in to the uncertainty of the dystopian world ahead of her.

“Go!” The Hunter was already going for his weapon in case she was hesitant about going out. His hand dipped in to his pocket and pulled out some ammunition, manually inserting each round in an over-exaggerated fashion. All the women reacted differently to the drugs inside of the bullets. Some of them would manage to keep running for about two minutes before suscepting to the ingredients inside, while others’ bodies would give up instantly. He was interested to see how Nadeja did.