Chairman Duncan Armistead (3 days after the crash)
Duncan rapped his finger upon his desk with urgency. Three days prior to now, a plane shipping twenty new test subjects was lost, all signs of it removed from the radar. Ever since he had nervously waited as footmen searched the area for any sort of wreckage. Normally, they'd find it within hours, but it became apparent that one of the captives on the plane had abilities that could interfere with radio signals - after the plane crashed and he was let out of his ability-numbing cell, he must have blocked the signal to the plane, multiplying his chances of survival tenfold. Duncan could only hope that few had survived the crash and that those who remained would soon be picked off by the soldiers under his command. The last thing he needed right now was some young idiots causing havoc across the continent and ruining the countless amount of work that he and his company had put in to keeping their kind a secret.
Duncan Armistead was the chairman of the Blind Hand. He was a financial mind and had little skill in science, but he had been chosen specifically to manage the project, to hire the employees and to keep any threat at hand. He remained in his comfortable office atop a skyscraper in the lively city of New York while he let the science-heads do the dirty work in the research facility up in Alaska and the hired guns to keep the peace and collect the subjects. Despite the fact the only work he really did was pushing papers here and there and giving the nod when required, a lot of the responsibility for a situation like this was put on his shoulders, and if any of these superhumans somehow evaded his forces and returned to the US, it would be highly problematic for everyone involved and would probably see him sacked.
A knock on his door rang out, breaking any trail of thought that he had. He brushed what was left of his messy hair in to a comb-over with his hand and called out in a nervous and somewhat choked tone, "come in." An assistant of him entered, bearing a timid stance, seemingly reluctant to speak with him. "Well," Duncan spat, "What is it? Do you have news from Canada?" His breathing stopped as he waited for a reply, staring directly at the assistant.
"Yes, sir," the assistant nodded. "Fifteen of them survived the initial crash. Five died on impact, along with the majority of the plane's crew." The assistant stopped for a moment, but Duncan did not say anything, so the assistant continued. "Uh - we've tracked down four of them, captured two, killed the other two who put up a fight... the rest... we're working on it, sir." The assistant stopped still and waited once again, watching as the anger and disappointment spread across Duncan's face. "Do you have any orders sir?" The assistant asked.
"Kill them," Duncan nodded. "Kill them all."
Finley Malone (fifteen minutes after the crash)
Finley had been running through the woods for ten minutes before his legs finally gave out - just in time for him to stumble down by the side of a large blue lake. All around the lake was miles and miles of woodland, mountains in the distance. He was relieved in some ways, the fact he was in such a remote place probably meant that his chances of not getting recaptured were better than if he were back at home. He peered around himself, at the clear waters and at the long, flat, grassy bank that bordered the lake - this was a good place for more than one reason. First of all, his right knee was bleeding quite badly, was in dire pain and clearly needed to be cleaned very soon. He also acknowledged the fact that others would also be drawn to the lake, the largest clearing of trees for some distance, and meet with him. He saw the others back at the wreckage, like him, it seemed - special, superhuman, taken from their homes, likely to be tested on - at least that is what one of the guards had taunted him with, a life as a guinea pig. He wondered if any of the other survivors had any sort of clue as to what was going on. Hopefully they would be willing to work together - he didn't see how else they would survive in the wilderness, especially if they were still being targeted by the strange group that had taken them.
He knelt down and examined his knee. He quickly discovered that a spike of metal had been launched in to his knee, hence the aching pain. Luckily, it wasn't too deep, but it was pretty gory - it seemed his adrenaline alone had pushed him away from the wreckage - and perhaps a little bit of wind on his back, so to speak. He cleaned off his knee and lay back, trying to piece together exactly what had just occurred.
(fifteen minutes prior)
Finley took slow, tense breaths in his chair. He was tied down by metal straps as if he was in an asylum from a horror movie. He glanced over to the armed guard that was watching him. He'd tried to talk to the guard, ask him why he was here and where he was going, but until now he had got no response. At first he had tried to be reasonable, but it's hard to reason when you've been tied down and kidnapped. "Look," Finley spat, tilting his head towards the guard and speaking in a mildly Irish accent that had been dulled by years of life in America. "You wait and see what happens when I get out of this chair. You'll regret this." He frowned darkly at the guard, who for a moment smirked before walking over to Finley and staring at him without emotion. Finley was surprised he had gotten a reaction.
"Look, freak," the guard hissed in a low tone. "You 'aint ever getting out of this chair. You're gonna' spend the rest of your life being a fuckin' lab rat." The guard leant down so he was on level with Finley. "So, I don't think I'll be regretting this, will I? I've got a gun, I've got freedom... and what have you got? A shred of self belief? Don't worry, that'll be gone soon." Without another word, the guard spat a globule of saliva on to Finely's face, who was unable to wipe it off. The guard returned to his place and Finley, despite his rash nature, was wise enough not to continue the argument. However much he'd like to give that guard a sock, he'd only be making it worse for himself by insulting the goon.
The next five minutes were silent and painful. Finley was registering in his head the possibility of a life of being a test subject. He quickly removed the thought from his head, realising that dwelling on such a thing was a mistake and coming to the conclusion that the guard had said it just to get him worried. He wouldn't let him in his head. The hideous spot of congealed spit had dripped down off of his face by now, but it had left a trail in it's place that Finley desperately wished to scrub off. As he tried to reach his cheek down to rub on his shoulder, his action was interrupted by a great vibration on the plane. Suddenly, the plane went in to freefall. Finley had no idea how high up he was, since he had no windows, but he assumed they were pretty high as it felt like a while that they were falling for. Finley knew he'd probably die if the plane crashed in to the ground, especially since he was tied in to a chair. He closed his eyes tight, hearing chaos go through the plane, the guard left his room and ran off somewhere.
The next minute was a blur. For a moment, the pilot seemed to regain control, and then seconds later the plane shook with incredible violence, probably driving straight in to something. There was an explosion near the front of the plane - luckily, Finley was somewhere near the back, though it still tore through the plane and sent a piece of metal hurtling in to his leg. He did not realise immediately, but he was free from his chair - it seemed like it was on some sort electronic system that had been obliterated in the explosion. He stood up and stumbled out of the chair, utterly dazed by the crash.
As he emerged from the wreckage he looked around to see a purely chaotic sight. Several people ran out in to the woodlands - some crawled along the ground, struggling to breathe and others were already dead. He saw one guard that looked burnt to a crisp, on the edge of life. He just stood still for a while, peering at the plane that had rammed straight in to a cliff face. He could not fathom how it had come to this. He shook his head and realised that there were guards around him, quickly he turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could away from the plane.
Finley sighed and realised his luck. Without a plane crash, he'd have ended up imprisoned for the foreseeable future, if not the entirety of his life. He just had to cling on to the hope that his luck would continue and he wouldn't get caught or shot by any of these maniacs. He sat and calmly waited, hoping for someone else to arrive so he could converse on his thoughts.
Duncan rapped his finger upon his desk with urgency. Three days prior to now, a plane shipping twenty new test subjects was lost, all signs of it removed from the radar. Ever since he had nervously waited as footmen searched the area for any sort of wreckage. Normally, they'd find it within hours, but it became apparent that one of the captives on the plane had abilities that could interfere with radio signals - after the plane crashed and he was let out of his ability-numbing cell, he must have blocked the signal to the plane, multiplying his chances of survival tenfold. Duncan could only hope that few had survived the crash and that those who remained would soon be picked off by the soldiers under his command. The last thing he needed right now was some young idiots causing havoc across the continent and ruining the countless amount of work that he and his company had put in to keeping their kind a secret.
Duncan Armistead was the chairman of the Blind Hand. He was a financial mind and had little skill in science, but he had been chosen specifically to manage the project, to hire the employees and to keep any threat at hand. He remained in his comfortable office atop a skyscraper in the lively city of New York while he let the science-heads do the dirty work in the research facility up in Alaska and the hired guns to keep the peace and collect the subjects. Despite the fact the only work he really did was pushing papers here and there and giving the nod when required, a lot of the responsibility for a situation like this was put on his shoulders, and if any of these superhumans somehow evaded his forces and returned to the US, it would be highly problematic for everyone involved and would probably see him sacked.
A knock on his door rang out, breaking any trail of thought that he had. He brushed what was left of his messy hair in to a comb-over with his hand and called out in a nervous and somewhat choked tone, "come in." An assistant of him entered, bearing a timid stance, seemingly reluctant to speak with him. "Well," Duncan spat, "What is it? Do you have news from Canada?" His breathing stopped as he waited for a reply, staring directly at the assistant.
"Yes, sir," the assistant nodded. "Fifteen of them survived the initial crash. Five died on impact, along with the majority of the plane's crew." The assistant stopped for a moment, but Duncan did not say anything, so the assistant continued. "Uh - we've tracked down four of them, captured two, killed the other two who put up a fight... the rest... we're working on it, sir." The assistant stopped still and waited once again, watching as the anger and disappointment spread across Duncan's face. "Do you have any orders sir?" The assistant asked.
"Kill them," Duncan nodded. "Kill them all."
Finley Malone (fifteen minutes after the crash)
Finley had been running through the woods for ten minutes before his legs finally gave out - just in time for him to stumble down by the side of a large blue lake. All around the lake was miles and miles of woodland, mountains in the distance. He was relieved in some ways, the fact he was in such a remote place probably meant that his chances of not getting recaptured were better than if he were back at home. He peered around himself, at the clear waters and at the long, flat, grassy bank that bordered the lake - this was a good place for more than one reason. First of all, his right knee was bleeding quite badly, was in dire pain and clearly needed to be cleaned very soon. He also acknowledged the fact that others would also be drawn to the lake, the largest clearing of trees for some distance, and meet with him. He saw the others back at the wreckage, like him, it seemed - special, superhuman, taken from their homes, likely to be tested on - at least that is what one of the guards had taunted him with, a life as a guinea pig. He wondered if any of the other survivors had any sort of clue as to what was going on. Hopefully they would be willing to work together - he didn't see how else they would survive in the wilderness, especially if they were still being targeted by the strange group that had taken them.
He knelt down and examined his knee. He quickly discovered that a spike of metal had been launched in to his knee, hence the aching pain. Luckily, it wasn't too deep, but it was pretty gory - it seemed his adrenaline alone had pushed him away from the wreckage - and perhaps a little bit of wind on his back, so to speak. He cleaned off his knee and lay back, trying to piece together exactly what had just occurred.
(fifteen minutes prior)
Finley took slow, tense breaths in his chair. He was tied down by metal straps as if he was in an asylum from a horror movie. He glanced over to the armed guard that was watching him. He'd tried to talk to the guard, ask him why he was here and where he was going, but until now he had got no response. At first he had tried to be reasonable, but it's hard to reason when you've been tied down and kidnapped. "Look," Finley spat, tilting his head towards the guard and speaking in a mildly Irish accent that had been dulled by years of life in America. "You wait and see what happens when I get out of this chair. You'll regret this." He frowned darkly at the guard, who for a moment smirked before walking over to Finley and staring at him without emotion. Finley was surprised he had gotten a reaction.
"Look, freak," the guard hissed in a low tone. "You 'aint ever getting out of this chair. You're gonna' spend the rest of your life being a fuckin' lab rat." The guard leant down so he was on level with Finley. "So, I don't think I'll be regretting this, will I? I've got a gun, I've got freedom... and what have you got? A shred of self belief? Don't worry, that'll be gone soon." Without another word, the guard spat a globule of saliva on to Finely's face, who was unable to wipe it off. The guard returned to his place and Finley, despite his rash nature, was wise enough not to continue the argument. However much he'd like to give that guard a sock, he'd only be making it worse for himself by insulting the goon.
The next five minutes were silent and painful. Finley was registering in his head the possibility of a life of being a test subject. He quickly removed the thought from his head, realising that dwelling on such a thing was a mistake and coming to the conclusion that the guard had said it just to get him worried. He wouldn't let him in his head. The hideous spot of congealed spit had dripped down off of his face by now, but it had left a trail in it's place that Finley desperately wished to scrub off. As he tried to reach his cheek down to rub on his shoulder, his action was interrupted by a great vibration on the plane. Suddenly, the plane went in to freefall. Finley had no idea how high up he was, since he had no windows, but he assumed they were pretty high as it felt like a while that they were falling for. Finley knew he'd probably die if the plane crashed in to the ground, especially since he was tied in to a chair. He closed his eyes tight, hearing chaos go through the plane, the guard left his room and ran off somewhere.
The next minute was a blur. For a moment, the pilot seemed to regain control, and then seconds later the plane shook with incredible violence, probably driving straight in to something. There was an explosion near the front of the plane - luckily, Finley was somewhere near the back, though it still tore through the plane and sent a piece of metal hurtling in to his leg. He did not realise immediately, but he was free from his chair - it seemed like it was on some sort electronic system that had been obliterated in the explosion. He stood up and stumbled out of the chair, utterly dazed by the crash.
As he emerged from the wreckage he looked around to see a purely chaotic sight. Several people ran out in to the woodlands - some crawled along the ground, struggling to breathe and others were already dead. He saw one guard that looked burnt to a crisp, on the edge of life. He just stood still for a while, peering at the plane that had rammed straight in to a cliff face. He could not fathom how it had come to this. He shook his head and realised that there were guards around him, quickly he turned on his heel and ran as fast as he could away from the plane.
Finley sighed and realised his luck. Without a plane crash, he'd have ended up imprisoned for the foreseeable future, if not the entirety of his life. He just had to cling on to the hope that his luck would continue and he wouldn't get caught or shot by any of these maniacs. He sat and calmly waited, hoping for someone else to arrive so he could converse on his thoughts.
