To Ascent A Lie

The December air in Novodvanisk clawed at the cracked windows of the warehouse, as if it was a restless creature in its final moments.

The white, beautiful yet cold snowflakes crept in, dying the concrete silently in white, while a blizzard roared just beyond the glass.

Overhead, a single bulb flickered weakly, casting a pale light over the oil-stained floors.

A curl of smoke rose from the end of a burning cigarette, dangling casually from the lips of the young man perched on a steel desk.

He sat with his head raised looking at the ceiling, legs crossed, and leaning his hands back on the table.

He savored the taste of warm tobacco and dried juniper berries in his mouth, in contrast with the cold air that seeped into the room.

He had a black centipede tattoo on his neck, a grim reminder of failure of being successful at the last stage.

His black eyes didn't blink, but just stared, dark and endless, on the broken figure tied to a chair before him.

He was above average in terms of looks, but his pitch black eyes that seemed that they could swallow the world stood out the most.

His attire was simple: combat boots, black pants worn from battle, a shirt that clung to his form like it had been stitched into his skin.

Behind him, a grim cathedral of weaponry, AKs, crates of ammo, explosives—all organized with meticulous care. 

His voice broke the silence, flat, devoid of inflection. It wasn't loud, nor soft. It was just a statement of undeniable truth.

"Sigh... you're not giving me what I want."

He stated, calmly heavy with the weight of unspoken threats.

A man was seated on a chair in front of him. 

He was broken, bloodied, and gasping for air, trembling with dull eyes as if his mind had been engraved with the fear of any mere words that would spill from the young man's mouth.

But Xin didn't flinch or blink.

His cigarette dropped to the floor and was extinguished underfoot, like a powerless man would under a Corporation Giant.

His raven hair was falling in loose waves, a braid swaying slightly with each breath, smoke curling from his lips like a dragon in exile.

He reached for a knife in his strap pocket, and admired its sharpness.

"You're lying. Or maybe not. I don't really care" 

He crouched in front of the man, tilting his head slightly as if watching an insect twitch in its final moments.

"You know what day it is?" Xin asked, his voice still and steady, magnanimously asking the unsuspected question.

Not responding to him, the sorry excuse of a man just sobbed in response to the young man's inquires, not providing an appropriate answer in his piteous state.

"December 24th," Xin said, directly exhaling a draft of smoke directly into his face.

"Its almost Christmas. Now, you're going to tell me the 'truth', or I'll 'get' it out of you."

The cold steel of the knife kissed the man's cheek, administrating an injection of fear that coursed through his veins. His skin trembled under his tedious, unhurried touch.

The young man had suddenly remembered that he had not received his Christmas gift yet, so he decided to get one for himself later.

Knock, knock.

"Enter."

The door groaned on its hinges, and in walked a giant, seven feet of muscle, scars like maps of hell's highways, carrying an M240B with the casual grace of someone holding a mere trinket.

Ah, Vladimir. He looked handsome as always. Quiet, Loyal, deadly, and unwavering.

"You called, sir Xin?" Vladimir asked respectfully.

Xin nodded unanimously towards the broken man in the chair. "Bring me the lab coat. And the glasses. The cart too, you know, the one we talked about."

Without a word, Vladimir dipped his head and disappeared.

The prisoner whimpered, weakly struggling against his restraints.

"W-what are you going to do to me?" he croaked in fear as he started to more desperately resist, with no result.

Xin ignored him, only dipping his hands into his pocket and retrieving a cigarette case before placing a cigarette between his lips, as if trying to attempt a certain person he used to be close with.

"You won't get away with this! Leave me alone this instant!" The man roared, as he started becoming restless, thrashing his fingers as he tried to move his body in a panic.

"When I talk to you, you listen to me, you son of a bitch!!"

The door creaked open again, and Vladimir rolled in the evidently innocuous cart.

Vials, syringes, unnamed horrors in neat rows.

A lab coat, white gloves, and round glasses were placed on a book on the cart.

It was like a twisted parody of a sci-fi movie.

Xin with the expeditious and swiftness of a cat that had mastered the Ph.D of capturing an ill-stared rat, slipped into the lab coat, a mad scientist's costume from the deepest corners of a nightmare, and drew a clear, transparent twitching liquid from a vial.

A.... parasite?

Nope. Something worse... far worse.

The man in the chair screamed before the needle even touched his skin, shrieking like a pig taken to slaughter without an ounce of mercy.

Desperately pleading his case, the man attempted to grovel unsuccessfully.

The binds of the unyielding chair groaned under his intense struggle but steadily held in place, as if challenging the man to a provocation.

"P-please give me one last chance! I swear I'll make it up for you! Please, anything but that"

"Hold him."

Vladimir obediently complied with his master's orders. His massive hands gripped the man like a vice, as if carrying the weight that Atlas carried.

Xin pressed the needle into the prisoner's arm unflinchingly, as if his desperate attempt of escape did not move his frozen heart a single inch.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

The convulsions started immediately, violent and uncontrollable. Blood poured from every orifice, flesh tearing, screams escalating into a symphony of torment.

Nails cracked. Hair was ripped free, creating quite the gruesome scene. Bones bent and shattered.

Hmm.... I wonder who will clean the warehouse?

BOOM!

The explosion. A wet bloom of bleeding red lilies.

So colorful.

The walls were painted with red, the air thick with the stench of fresh death, as if the grim reaper was merely overworking on a typical, customary day.

Not a drop splattered against Xin's clothing.

Xin didn't even blink. He removed the needle slowly from midair, as if savoring the moment.

Silence swallowed the location.

Vladimir was looking disturbed as much as he would be disturbed from a cat meowing constantly as if the cat was an emperor ordering it's aristocratic, upper-class nobles to slaughter the vile, peasant dogs that roamed the streets in protests.

He was pondering who would clean the warehouse.

A serious problem to consider.

Xin on the other hand was looking blankly in the spot where the man had gone to his creator.

It was as if his brain was unable to encompass what had just occurred.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Vladimir froze.

'What... is happening....? Why is boss suddenly crying?'

Xin murmured in deliberation, his voice barely making the sound of a quiet whisper.

"This… this was a magnificent scream. No matter how much of a producer I could be, I could never recreate this beautiful music. Sigh... what a sad world"

A smile spread across his face, far too wide, far too feral.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

Applause. Fast. Maniacal. Not for the death, but for the artistry of it.

"Vladimir," Xin said, his voice as calm as the tranquil water, reflecting the rythm of the falling snow outside. "Did you record that scream?"

A long silence.

"Vladimir?"

"Yes, boss!" came the reply.

Quickly tapping on the voice recording app on the cat-cased phone, Vladimir nodded his head in succession, as he brought the hand that held the phone to his pocket and casually placed it inside.

Xin smiled, his hands working quickly to open a suitcase. Inside laid a gold bar, blades, a revolver, .44 rounds, a scalpel etched with the words Liber Primus, opium seeds, a Swiss knife—all pristine, sacred in their cleanliness.

He admired them for a moment before closing the case and grabbing another—a M2010 rifle, perfect, flawless.

And then, in a moment of strange contrast, the young man shed his war persona. He stripped out of combat mode and into the absurdity of street fashion: a black tee, white shorts, flip-flops, a comically long scarf, and a massive puffy coat. He looked like a child lost in a snowstorm.

-60 degrees Celsius.

It didn't matter. The cold didn't touch him. It simply revolved around his small, brittle-looking skin, flowing around him as if he had the authority to command temperature.

He hefted the suitcases, nodding at Vladimir, who stood silently by.

"Let's go."

The door closed behind them, the final sounds of the warehouse fading into the night as they stepped into the storm.

"Let's move." Xin ordered, voice like frostbite. It left no space for nugatory argument that did not carry a grain of value.

"Yes, Sir Xin. This way please, if you may. The driver is waiting right ahead."

They slipped out into the storm, the warehouse doors groaning behind them. Snow whipped sideways under the anemic buzz of overhead lights.

The guards outside snapped to attention, breath misting thickly in the arctic air of their godforsaken outpost. Out here, on a nowhere patch of frozen hell, Xin's word was the only law.

A black SUV sat waiting, engine rumbling low like a beast chained too long.

Vladimir hauled the door open with a grunt, standing aside for Xin to slide into the heavy warmth inside.

He followed, slamming the door shut with a meaty hand. Up front, the driver in a sharp tux nodded once, silent as a corpse, and pulled them out onto the ice-slick road.

For a while, only the sound of tires crunching through snow filled the air.

Then Vladimir spoke, his voice a slow, amused rumble.

"So. Those Italians... well, I mean the new contractors. What do you think their play is, Sir? They seem to be making too light of our professional business, its annoying."

Xin leaned back against the leather, flicking open a battered cigarette pack. One cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.

His breath fogged the cabin, the heater struggling to chase away the cold still clinging to him like a second skin.

"Weapons. That's what they say at least." He exhaled slow. "Lies. Something is wrong."

He turned his head slightly in undisguised query as he comfortably snuggled comfortably in the vehicles passenger seats. "You got what I asked for?"

Vladimir chuckled, reaching into a blood-smeared black bag as casual as if he was merely enjoining the need for fried chicken on a lonely night.

With a lazy motion, he pulled free a cracked tablet smeared with something dark and tossed it to Xin.

"Yeah, boss. I got the whole story wrapped in a bloody bag."

Xin caught the device, thumbed it on.

The screen flickered, glass fractured but alive. A PIN screen glowed. Twelve digits and a few symbols later, the screen unlocked to a PDF detailing the messy aftermath of a "negotiation."