The Scarman Enigma

[|Scarecrow|]

Starwood Hotel, Centre for Commerce, Floor 73

Victoria crawled backwards along the floor, using only her elbows, her backside, and her heels. Her wrists and ankles had been rebound more securely by tough engineering tape after her earlier loosening. The maniacal Tyrant Marcus Scarman was cackling with glee as he slowly followed her. Unable to run, all she could do was desperately push herself away from him. Even if she hadn’t been bound, there was nowhere to go.

Tyrant Scarman had dragged Victoria into a conference room adjacent to the other commercial spaces on floor 73. This small chamber had been a meeting room immediately prior to the Black Flag takeover, and evidence of recent use was plain to see. The single computer and its array of holographic projectors were still active, and a mug of gently steaming coffee sat on one of the tabletops. Despite this, there was no one else present, and Tyrant Scarman had warned off any of his Black Flag pirates.

As they had entered, the Tyrant had thrown her roughly into a grouped collection of chairs and tables, where she had painfully struck her thigh. A deep pain had set in, although she believed it to be a matter of bruised tissue, and thankfully not a break. Still, she hadn’t yet been able to put any weight on it to test it. She looked up at the mad Tyrant, her mind frantically trying to pull some kind of plan together. His eyes gave her nothing but uncontrolled rage and a deeply disturbing suggestion of lust and desire. On the verge of panic, she pushed herself further away from him, knocking over another chair as she moved.

“K- Keep back!” She yelled, fruitlessly.
The Tyrant stopped at one of the conference tables and placed one booted foot onto the edge of an overturned chair. He slowly reached down inside the boot and drew a long, thick-bladed combat knife. Victoria swallowed, hard. She wasn’t wearing any of her marine armour. The Tyrant had seemingly removed everything during their descent down from the Danaan in the stolen Thunderhawk. Her flak jacket, pauldrons, groin, and all other armour pieces were gone. All she now wore were her black underlayer fatigues and her heavy-duty combat boots. Even her fingerless gloves and neck-snood were gone.

Tyrant Scarman grinned at her as he let the discoloured light from the overhead fluorescent tubes play on the metal of his blade.
“Careful,” His voice was a near whisper, “This one’s sharp.”
Victoria tried to back away further, but she had now reached the far side of the room.
Through gritted teeth, Victoria steeled herself, “Do your worst. Whatever you do to me, he’ll do ten times worse to you!”
The Tyrant laughed and said nothing as he lowered the blade and grabbed the edge of one of the tables. He then proceeded to drag the table back across the room toward the doorway. The legs produced and awful screeching sound as they were dragged across the tiled flooring. Eventually, the rending sound ended as Tyrant Scarman wedged the table up against the door. Victoria watched him, holding her breath. The obstacle wouldn’t make an escape impossible, but it certainly compounded the issue.

Tyrant Scarman then turned and made his way back across the room toward her. She closed her eyes and braced herself, sensing him draw closer. She then felt a grappling at her ankles, and suddenly, the tape that bound her fell away. She opened her eyes and looked on in disbelief. However, any hope she had quickly drained away as she found herself directly faced with the still leering Tyrant. He was now knelt before her and had cut the tape to free her feet.
“There you go, better for you…” He growled, flicking the knife over in his hand so that the blade was facing downward.

In one devastatingly swift movement, the Tyrant plunged the knife down, aiming for Victoria’s left shin bone. She managed to move her leg to the side, but only just. The blade nicked the side of her calf, cutting cleanly through her combat fatigues and slicing through flesh. Victoria howled in pain and recoiled away. But it didn’t take her long to rally. Her legs were now free; a significant improvement. She coiled her right leg and pushed the Tyrant away. She then sprung to her feet, as best she could. Pain lanced throughout her legs, from the mixture of the bruising of her thigh and the cut to her left calf were almost debilitating. Wincing, she limped around the back of the conference tables, positioning them between herself and the Tyrant. She then began to twist and pull at the tape binding her wrists. She moved her hands up to her face and sunk her teeth into the binding roll. The taste and texture were horrible; bitter and sticky.

The Tyrant laughed again as he grabbed the first table flung it aside. It crashed to Victoria’s right with a clatter, sending chairs sprawling in every direction. The Tyrant grabbed another table and slid it away to the Victoria’s left. It shrieked and groaned as its legs scraped along the floor before it finally came to a halt.
“Go on,” The Tyrant leered. “Make a break for it. See how far you get.”
Victoria lowered her arms, spitting away the disgusting taste of the tape. There was no way she’d be able to free herself in time. Instead, she readied herself for the fight.

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| S C A R E C R O W |

"See you space cowboy..."