I'll try to update this story more often, OK? Just, things are changing around here faster than I like. A very good friend died in a car crash, and its summer. So Surfing + Swim team from 7 AM to 8 AM+ School = Less Writing Time.
So enjoy this shorty!
SKY ABOVE NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT
Over the busy brightness of NYC's boroughs, Angels soars. He wears an unwieldy visor, equipped with night-vision attached by cables to the adapted antennaed device strapped to his chest. Angel glides onwards, flaps his majestic wings. The antennaed device begins giving off a low beeping. Angel reacts, adjusts a knob on the visor as he looks down, searching.
JUNK YARD - NIGHT A pile of crushed, junk yard cars. Loud noises, obviously machinery can be heard rumbling.. Angel slowly climbs up to peer over, and takes off the visor. Before him, a giant crane with a giant electric magnet is being used to stack and lift other ruined cars in the yard. Angel looks disappointed. He leaps up and flies away.
BROOKLYN NAVY YARD, THE COMPOUND - NIGHT
Angel gains altitude, heading towards Manhattan, oblivious to the fact he's practically passing over Gyrich's H.Q., the Compound.
THE COMPOUND, TORTURE ROOM - NIGHT UNDERWATER
Beast is wrapped in metal chains with lead weights connected to them. Chains bind his arms behind him and hold his legs as he holds his breath and struggles desperately against the bonds.
IN THE TORTURE ROOM
A Torturer turns a giant wheel, pulling Beast up from a tank of murky water built into the floor. Beast gasps for breath. Gyrich, dressed in full medical garb, as if a mutation is a contagious disease, and Trask stands nearby.
"Once more... where are the X-Men?" Gyrich demands.
"The way you're treating me... you honestly think we're still on speaking terms?" Beast replies.
"If you don't want to answer, I could come back after you've had a few hours of this."
"Look... if I tell you where the X-Men are, it's like I'm doing you a favor. At this particular juncture I just don't feel you've earned it. Now, sit me down in front of a nice dinner, a bottle of wine... then we'll talk. Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." Gyrich sighs in frustration, waves for Trask to step up.
"Actually, could you scratch my back while you're down there... ouch!" Trask injects a hypodermic into Beast's thigh, drawing blood.
"You're very entertaining, monkey man. Wise cracking and sailing. It's cute. Start keeping him under for three minutes." He says to the Touterer, and they walk to leave. Beast suddenly looks fearful.
"Okay... wait. Hold on..."
"You have something to say?" Gyrich says, hopeful.
"Yes, um... could I get a glass of water?" Gyrich and Trask exit, disgusted. Beast turns serious, angry.
Beast turns to the Torturer. "Hey ugly... I want you to think about something. Do you hurt me because you hate me, or do you hate me because you hurt me?"
"Shut your mouth, mutie." Torturer releases the wheel and Beast splashes down again.
THE COMPOUND - NIGHT
Gyrich and Trask walk a catwalk high up in the Compound.
"He's not going to betray his friends."
Gyrich answers, confident. "Let me worry about that. I'll dig up more guinea pigs. You just get started on that blood work."
"You do realize, it doesn't matter how many X-Men we get... the odds of finding the malformations in their genetic structures are still a billion to one."
"No, no, no. Don't try haggling with a mouthful of scientific hoop-de-do. Your price is set and non-negotiable."
"I'm only trying to say..."
"No, no. You get a hundred thousand for every mutant you create. Make Uncle Sam an army of mutant super-soldiers, he'll make you a millionaire. End of story."