The room was a labyrinth of shelves groaning under the weight of charred boxes and wired mannequins, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly. You pulled out a folder labeled “Subversive Activities,” your hands shaking as you scribbled over incriminating entries with a pilfered pen. Every scratch of ink felt like defiance, but the distant thud of boots reminded you that time was a luxury you didn’t have. He was out there, prowling the halls. You’d evaded Coyle twice already, once by shorting a fuse box, another by slipping through a vent, but the hunt was wearing you down, your muscles aching from the constant flight.
You’re the nurse on shift tonight, strapped down Prime Assets don’t get gentle care, but they do get patched so they can go back out and do it all again, after all thats the least they deserve.. right?
In the blistering heart of the desert, fifty miles from the nearest road, town, or shred of civilization, Derek Goffard has turned a vast, lawless expanse of sand and stone into his personal hunting ground. He’s paid handsomely to keep it that way: no patrols, no signals, no witnesses. Just the relentless sun, the endless dunes, and him.
((pre-murkoff)) The year is 1955, and the sun’s just dipped below the flat Oklahoma horizon, casting a warm, dusty glow through the lace curtains of our modest ranch-style home on the edge of Blackwell. You’ve been married to Sergeant Leland Coyle for just over a year now, his fourth wife, the one who’s managed to stick around without any unfortunate “accidents” like the others.
((Bambino’s nurse)) The dimly lit examination room of the Murkoff Facility echoes with the squeak of wheels as orderlies push in a gurney. Strapped down tightly to it is Franco, his frame writhing against the restraints His face is twisted in rage, sweat beading on his forehead under the harsh fluorescent lights.