Vicious World - The Fist and the Eagle

Chapter 2

        A loud beeping rings in my right ear as I begin to open my eyes a bit. I see the brightness of what can only be an operating room light, and start to re-close my eyes, beginning to slip out of consciousness again. The beeping gets a bit faster as I make a out a shadowy figure looming over me. “Come on,” I barely make out. Again, a bit louder, “Come on!” He gives one final roar, “Come on!” and I feel a huge jolt coursing through my body, making me snap my eyes open immediately.

        I look over toward the man that probably just saved my life and jump when I see a Russian helmet on a small white table next to a few IVs of blood and a heart monitor, steadily beeping now. A shot of brutal pain shoots through my chest, and I’m forced to stay laying down.

        “Hm. You probably shouldn’t move,” says a man in a deep, guttural voice, “You were hit pretty hard, those animals were almost at the gate. You won’t be able to get up for at least a couple more hours.”

        My vision was still a bit blurry, so I couldn’t make out his face, but there was something in his voice that I recognized, “Where the hell am I?” I groan.

        “You’re still in the Core, Michael,” he replies.

        That’s when my vision clears and I can see him. It’s Trip Morgan, mayor of the Core, sitting in a torn up green roll-around chair, in a suit of the Russians’ advanced body armor, “Trip... what are you doing in that suit?”

        Trip hears the suspicion in my voice and furrows his brow, “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Michael,” he says, ignoring that suspicion. “And Danger. We need to see him, too.”

        I look around the room. I’d never been in the mayor’s quarters before. It’s nothing like I’d imagined. Flashing lights, advanced computers whirring, machinery shining in the bright light, robots doing all his handiwork. This guy had it all. But how? I look back at Trip and see the Russian insignia of a two headed eagle ripping the American flag in two isn’t on his chestplate. Instead, there’s a white spiked shape encircling a black fist. “Trip, you need to answer me.”

        “Like I said, we need to talk to Danger, as well.”

         Danger comes tumbling in, as if on cue, and obviously by force, “You Russian bast-” he sees me and Trip talking. “Trip? Somebody needs to tell me what’s going on here, or I’m gonna flip.”

        Trip keeps a calm face and points to an empty chair almost identical to his own, “Please, Danger. Sit down.”

        Danger looks at me and I nod, “I want to hear this one out, man,” I say, also pointing to the chair. He sighs and takes a seat, looking across at Trip, wide-eyed when he sees the insignia.

        Trip grins, “Alright, you two. We’ve been training you to be the best guards we have here at the Core,” he claps his hands together, causing some dirt to fly off his hands in a small plume that floats around in the light, “But also to be the best soldiers we have.”

        Danger and I look at each other, a look of both confusion and pride on our faces, “Not sure what you’re getting at, but thanks, sir.” I say.

        Trip gets up and walks over to a wall of brown lockers and talks with his back to us, “You’re welcome, Michael,” he says as he reaches into the locker and grabs something that sounds heavy as it clangs into the metal sides, “I’ve got a present for you two.” With that, he produces two suits of black armor.

        The lights of the room shimmer on the black steel surface. Just like Trip’s armor, it has the insignia. The difference is his is a natural steel color and looks far more cumbersome. “Try them on,” he says, still wearing the same grin he had when Danger sat down.

        Danger and I look at the armor, “How’d you get these?” I ask.

        “Custom made for you two. Scavenged up some Russian armor and had the Core’s finest armorsmiths craft these pieces.” He puts emphasis on the word “scavenged,” obviously telling us it wasn’t the kind of scavenging one usually does.

        “Whoa, whoa. Where did you get your hands on the kind of equipment to do that?” Danger asks.

        “Scavenged that, too,” he chuckles and  walks over to a different locker and produces two advanced-looking rifles, “Also scavenged and custom-crafted these for you, too.” The one he hands me is a sleek black, similar to the armor, but glossy. The end of the long, thin barrel glows blue, and below the barrel is a gripped black pump. A large rectangular scope is mounted to the top.

        Danger’s rifle is shorter by a bit and bulkier. It sports a much wider barrel with several small hexagonal openings glowing at the end and lacked a scope, “This is better than what the Russians have,” says Danger, looking down the sights of his gun, “Definitely the most advanced shotgun I’ve ever seen.”

        “Best craftsmen in the wastes, don’t think we could make another if we tried,” says Trip, turning to me, “How do you like your sniper rifle? Fully loaded with elite optics and a plasma breeder. Yours has a breeder, too, Danger.”

        Danger and I put on our armor. It really is the finest thing. Mine’s a bit smaller than Danger’s, with a thin helmet that has a bubble-like visor. The armor itself is super technical. A fan blows inside of a compartment of the back piece, providing me with a constant supply of good, filtered oxygen. Danger’s is aesthetically the same, just much thicker, probably since he’s more of a medium to heavy weapons expert, whereas I’m more of a sniper.

        “What’s the catch?” I ask, feeling the comfortability of the armor and the perfectly balanced weight of the rifle.

        Trip laughs heartily, “Catch? I don’t think there’s a catch in giving a couple soldiers some protection.”

        “Alright, then what do you want us soldiers to do with this protection?”

        “Well, that’s a much better question,” he says, smile dissipating, face growing dark. “We need you guys to assassinate Yuri Malchov, the President of New Russia.”