In a room
This was meant for another post in another community, however I screwed up... I misread something.. but I typed this all out, so I thought I would at least post it!
Zackery awoke, but he could not move. His eyes squinted as light from a single source blinded him. He did not know how long he was out cold. He had no idea where he was... or even worse how he must have gotten there.
While his eyes adjusted, Zackery took note that he was sitting. He was sitting on a wooden chair. He was not bound to it as his thoughts came quickly to him. How odd.
As if to mock him, he heard whispers and a creaking sound of shifting weight on other wooden chairs, and the smoke of cheep cigarettes filled his lungs. The whispers were that of men speaking in a foreign language. Well not foreign for Zackery knew Russian. He also could tell a Russian brand of smokes from the lack of all the crap that American brands had.
"He is awake." The first voice in a deeply scratchy voice said.
"Da, that he is." An older voice of wisdom said.
"It was a mistake bringing him here!" A young voice full of rage and hate snapped.
"You think everything is a mistake unless you did it, and then you do not realize that it was you that made the mistake. I will hear none of this. He is here. He will hear our story." The older voice said.
The deeply scratchy voice responded with an affirmative grunt, while the younger voice cursed with words Zackery was not familiar with. Zackery's vision was clearing up.
"American... American can you hear me?" The older voice said in a well cultured, yet thick accented, English. And as if that was all it took, Zackery could see again. And what he saw he had already quested.
The single light source was from an old oil lamp on a small table. The table was between Zackery and two others, whom were also sitting in chairs of their own. One was an older man, silver-white hair tied into a pony tail. His lined face free of any facial hair. His eyes were a dark almond color that gleamed in the light of the lamp and hinted at years of experience and wisdom. He wore a gray-tan sweater and a thick pair of jeans. A pair of brown boots completed that of which he was wearing. He sat with one leg over the other, a hand resting on the table, and his eyes studying Zackery.
The other sitting man was a pocked-face scared man. He was a man of action, a man that had learned things the hard way. This Zackery could tell right off the bat. He would act when the time came, and when it was required of him. He wore a dark leather vest over a rusty-red colored shirt. He wore dark pants and his boots were military issued with steal tips. He sat as if completely relaxed, but Zackery could tell that he was worse then a coiled snake. If Zackery moved the man would strike and kill him with a single blow more then likely.
Then, outside the greasy light of the dancing flame produced by the oil within the lamp, was another man. Zackery could not see him, and barely could he make him out. But he was there. Smoking a cigarette, and holding something that gleamed from another source of light. That light was the stars outside the only window in the room.
Zackery could see the window now. The tundra landscaped went on forever. Stars specked the nights sky. Zackery could tell that this meant he was far from any city as light form a town or city would block such a wonderful star-lit night. This made things harder. Well... maybe not harder, just... more time-involved. He would have to play this one out as long as he could.
"I can hear you comrade." Zackery responded in their native tongue. "What is it that you have done to me? Where am I? And what is it you wish to either do with me, or have me do for you?" His russian was not perfect, it was heavily slurred. He must have been drugged when he was brought here.
Zackery awoke, but he could not move. His eyes squinted as light from a single source blinded him. He did not know how long he was out cold. He had no idea where he was... or even worse how he must have gotten there.
While his eyes adjusted, Zackery took note that he was sitting. He was sitting on a wooden chair. He was not bound to it as his thoughts came quickly to him. How odd.
As if to mock him, he heard whispers and a creaking sound of shifting weight on other wooden chairs, and the smoke of cheep cigarettes filled his lungs. The whispers were that of men speaking in a foreign language. Well not foreign for Zackery knew Russian. He also could tell a Russian brand of smokes from the lack of all the crap that American brands had.
"He is awake." The first voice in a deeply scratchy voice said.
"Da, that he is." An older voice of wisdom said.
"It was a mistake bringing him here!" A young voice full of rage and hate snapped.
"You think everything is a mistake unless you did it, and then you do not realize that it was you that made the mistake. I will hear none of this. He is here. He will hear our story." The older voice said.
The deeply scratchy voice responded with an affirmative grunt, while the younger voice cursed with words Zackery was not familiar with. Zackery's vision was clearing up.
"American... American can you hear me?" The older voice said in a well cultured, yet thick accented, English. And as if that was all it took, Zackery could see again. And what he saw he had already quested.
The single light source was from an old oil lamp on a small table. The table was between Zackery and two others, whom were also sitting in chairs of their own. One was an older man, silver-white hair tied into a pony tail. His lined face free of any facial hair. His eyes were a dark almond color that gleamed in the light of the lamp and hinted at years of experience and wisdom. He wore a gray-tan sweater and a thick pair of jeans. A pair of brown boots completed that of which he was wearing. He sat with one leg over the other, a hand resting on the table, and his eyes studying Zackery.
The other sitting man was a pocked-face scared man. He was a man of action, a man that had learned things the hard way. This Zackery could tell right off the bat. He would act when the time came, and when it was required of him. He wore a dark leather vest over a rusty-red colored shirt. He wore dark pants and his boots were military issued with steal tips. He sat as if completely relaxed, but Zackery could tell that he was worse then a coiled snake. If Zackery moved the man would strike and kill him with a single blow more then likely.
Then, outside the greasy light of the dancing flame produced by the oil within the lamp, was another man. Zackery could not see him, and barely could he make him out. But he was there. Smoking a cigarette, and holding something that gleamed from another source of light. That light was the stars outside the only window in the room.
Zackery could see the window now. The tundra landscaped went on forever. Stars specked the nights sky. Zackery could tell that this meant he was far from any city as light form a town or city would block such a wonderful star-lit night. This made things harder. Well... maybe not harder, just... more time-involved. He would have to play this one out as long as he could.
"I can hear you comrade." Zackery responded in their native tongue. "What is it that you have done to me? Where am I? And what is it you wish to either do with me, or have me do for you?" His russian was not perfect, it was heavily slurred. He must have been drugged when he was brought here.