Kurtus
The burly man watched with narrowed eyes as the gas mask severed the ring fingers of everyone in the room.
Seriously? It seemed like every little shit wanted body parts around here. He didn't understand their actions because he hadn't bothered to pay attention to that part of the broadcast.
Damn psychos. The fact that Bloke,
What a stupid name, hadn't bothered to explain anything only ticked him off even more. He wanted knock that fake accent right out of his vocabulary. But the revolver held the man at bay. He was close, possibly close enough to slap the gun and lunge at the man. His gaze flicked around the room, from Bloke to Socrates to the unnamed fellow standing guard by the door. The odds were not in his favor, and logic told him that he probably wouldn't survive it. His grey-blue eye stared through the firearm and at Bloke's smug expression. He was holding it wrong. The idiot didn't even know how to properly use a gun. The barrel was angled downwards slightly instead of level, that would keep him from aiming correctly with the iron sights. Not only that but he was limp wirsted and gripped the handle too low.
Dumbass. If he was using a magazine pistol there was about a 30% chance that the bullet would get jammed in the chamber from the recoil movement.
Lucky thing he has a revolver.
And there it was again. He could recognize the gun type. he knew it was nickel plated and loaded with .375 ammunition. He could recall how to properly hold it for best use and accuracy. He could scan the room and find the best ways out, where to take cover if needed, win a fight with whatever he had on hand. And he could even size up an opponent's skill by just looking and listening to him. How the hell did know all of that without remembering anything? It was
infuriating. But then a thought popped into his head. It was small and fleeting but it was there. He was a soldier, no, not quite... He was a mercenary, and a well trained one at that. The man grasped for more, anything that might give him a hint, but it was already gone. All he had was that sliver of knowledge, but it was enough to cool him down a little. At least he knew
something, at least he knew his purpose.
Soon, gas mask finished up severing digits, and the freak returned to the front of the room. Apparently he was allowed to keep the dead man's clothes. Military gear, it suited him, and a weapon and a map. When they were done taking everything else from the man's body, the men began to back away.
"I'm Bloke, by the way. What do I call you?"
"Huh?" he replied, "I don't remember my fuckin name." His head surveyed the room, assessing the gorey aftermath while thinking.
What the hell was it? He had no idea. Swinging his head back towards the group, he continued in his gravely voice. "Just call me Kurtus for now." It was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn't know why. And after that, the men were gone. He stood there for a moment, wondering if everything had actually happened.
Yeah, it did. He was coated in that woman's gore, and the air still smelled like burnt flesh.
Jesus, he thought,
This is just great.
He needed to change clothes. Tolly's looked to fit and had considerably less blood on them than his current attire. Walking over to the man, Kurtus began to undress him, setting a journal, a piece of parchment, and an
ice hook to the side. Soon he had pulled on a pair of camouflage cargo pants, a long sleeve, grey compression shirt, and what looked like an old and worn, dark green flak jacket. He was set, and opted to keep the new black work boots he woke up with. Grabbing his three possessions, the soldier marched over to the main doorway. It was time figure out his location and how to get home, where ever that may be.