The last thing he remembered was being dragged along a hard, stony road by two men wearing tactical gear from head to foot. He could not make out any signs on their uniform which could indicate which side they fought on, but that did not make much difference these days. His vision was blurred, his eyes rolled back as he struggled to stay conscious against the inevitable void, but a final blow had knocked him out cold. His head and arms hung; his feet dragged lifelessly behind him as the two men yanked him down towards the Gulag.
"He is waking up…" A male voice said with a noticeable Russian accent from somewhere too his left. He jerked his head around to see where it was coming from, maybe get proper look at his capturer or generally learn a bit more. He got nothing that could be remotely helpful.
His eyes slowly opened once more, he fought against them closing and his breathing was swallow. When his eyes stayed open long enough for him to concentrate on something, he could make out the outline of a darkened room he was in. He sat tired to a chair, bonded by thick rope around each of his ankles to a wooden chair with his wrists tired together behind his back. He felt his other senses kick in as his awareness came around further. The smell was enough to turn stomachs, he tasted the tanginess of iron of his own blood in his mouth and occasionally he heard the sounds of distance gun shots and screams.
"Put him next in line to fight…" was the reply and with that everything went dark once more.
"Who is he, sir?"
"Operator A0109-C, a wanted man by all accounts, just as well he ended up here, he has now a choice, a chance to live or a chance to die…"