But hatred of what exactly? That reader, is the answer to many of the man's violent deeds, and the reason why he mostly fancies living alone in his metallic den, far away in East Wyoming. But it is also something we shall not touch upon too soon, for there are more pressing matters at hand: Ray Brankerfeld has entered the main room of his laboratory, the "study room", as Michael Fall himself calls it.
Whereas the few chambers they had to traverse after passing the noble wooden door with a silver knob had been more of a more conventional appearance than the corridors that led to them, being sparklingly illuminated by more powerful lamps than those positioned in the hallways before, filled with test tubes of colorful liquids and other scientific machines and accessories, the last room, the one where Brankerfeld had just stepped in, was just like the corridors, if not even more so out of touch than they appeared to be.
The smell in there, was that of rotten book instead of that of old books. Despite the room being only a few dozen meters square in terms of area, it's ceiling was stretched up so high that it was impossible to clearly see it. This allowed for the storage of piles upon piles of old papers, way more than should have been possible in a single study room. Contrary to the hallways that had come before, the air vents here were all clogged up, by what looked to be thick layers of dust - although Brankerfeld was in truth too disgusted by the neglected appearance of the material to go check what the grey moss that covered it was. Finally, the chamber was dark, very dark, so dark in fact that if it had not been for the only lamp inside the room, that being the small one positioned on the desk opposite of the door, none would have been able to see a thing in there.
Alas, Mr. The deputy commander knew about all of this, meaning he remained unsurprised by the somber atmosphere which permeated the place. His men did their best to stay stoic as he appeared.
Having taken the time to fully adapt to this new and hostile environment, the four armed guards looked at what was in front of them. Brankerfeld already had been for a few seconds now.
Here he was.
The man himself.
The linguist. The murderer. The boss of the Complex.
- Michael! - shouted Ray. We've brought you what you'd wished for.
Fall had been working focusingly on a paper about the relation between recorded criminality levels in certain country and the frequency of consonants in the words from those language when Brankerfeld entered his room.
Then he'd stopped.
His eyes had widened, he'd frowned, bitten his lower lip, and finally he'd stood up.
The deputy commander had never been among the most imposing of men, as fierce and combative as he had managed to become, which resultantly made Michael Fall, an individual of standard size, nonetheless appear as a behemoth when standing in front of the blonde-haired soldier. And so he looked at the C.I.A. officer from on high, sizing him up with what seemed, to Brankerfeld, as disgust or repulsion, maybe pity. But the truth was, that as high and mighty as Fall looked on the outside, he was a man who despised himself, and his confidence could never have hoped to stand as tall as that of Brankerfeld who, despite his modest stature, was young and beautiful-looking as a chiseled twenty year-old and knew how to speak loudly and openly, using his body as a way of implicitly conveying messages.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Fall was reserved, and even if he did not appreciate being given orders, or sometimes seem to despise Brankerfeld's actions, he never fought back against reprimands and insults which the C.I.A. officer sometimes spat out at him, fearless, for his lack of communication regarding his plans for the future of operations they worked together on.
Only, and that's what made Brankerfeld respect Fall, as much as he hated him, the linguist, as much as he looked like a disheveled and neglected university professor, with his half-open button-down shirt and brown washed-out detective coat, his uncombed hair that savagely attempted to reach new heights every new morning and his beard half trimmed, in what seemed to have been a rush since it had left cutting marks all over the man's jawline, Ray knew that the man who stood right before him, unenergetic and sleep-deprived as he looked now, was far from a pushover.
The forearms his rolled-up sleeves laid bare were big and strong, from the skin left naked by the opening of his white shirt burst out a thick wavy fur. His face, as much as a mess it was, still was very fair (Brankerfeld feared that if the man was to take better care of himself, he'd even prove more beautiful than he was), armed with a thick jawline, big machiavellian eyes, and hair that, it is truthful, was badly combed, but either way remained strong and plentiful.
The blue-eyed soldier had never seen him hold a gun in his hand. yet he knew he knew how to use these things. Firearms. He'd used them to kill many, many people. Perhaps more than Brankerfeld's kill count. No one really knew apart from those who'd personally witnessed his crimes or the men who had judges who'd analyzed his case when he'd been sent out to serve time in prison him. This part of Fall's life was clouded in mystery, making the character look more intimidating than his ragged self should allow him to be, and as such, Brankerfeld maintains his distance with the man, never sure about where to stand relative to him.
He doesn't understand Fall. That's why he hates the linguist. That which we can't understand we would prefer never to stand side-to-side with, and if we had to often, as does Brankerfeld, it would drive us mad with contempt and rage, as is happening to Ray, who although keen on fulfilling the orders given to him by the US's president in order to keep the man in his good graces, tries as much as possible to never linger for to long in the morbid space which Michael Fall calls home.
- Good morning, Brankerfeld, says Michael Fall.
- It's past midday, answers Ray.
- Oh.
- What's that? "Oh"?
- I thought that you'd have brought the heart by 8 a.m. And knowing that you never fail to come see me as soon as you step into my home, I reckon that you failed to deliver the promised items in due time.
Brankerfeld scoffed at the remark.
- Don't think you have your word to say here, Fall. I'm the one in charge once out on the field. It simply wasn't possible to fulfill your orders precisely as you had made them. Reality gets in the way sometimes.
- I don't blame you.
- ...
- I tend to not blame anyone. Who am I, you are correct, to comment on other people's effectiveness at work, when I fail to finish this damned paper I've been working on for the past two days non-stop, when it should have taken me two hours?
- If you have no right to comment, why do you do it anyway?
- I'm simply pointing out your imperfections, Brankerfeld. So that you don't forget the fact that we're all maggots crawling in the dirt.
