The Hunted (Sci-fi Smackdown)

"Are you sure he's the man for the job?" said the Director.

"We have little choice in the matter, Sir. There are only a few subjects left who meet the criteria and tests indicate he poses the highest chance of return," said the analyst.

"He's ex-military isn't he?"

"Yes sir, he served since 2046 for 10 years, he's well versed in surviving in treacherous conditions."

"Have them bring him in."

The analyst reached for his communicator, "Privates Wealles and Ousan, bring me 45875-12."

"Yes Sir," they responded in almost perfect harmony.

After receiving their orders, both guards headed to the cells.

"45875-12, he's a nasty mother fucker, " Wealles said and spat reflexively to cleanse the number from his mouth.

"What's he in the Tank for?" asked Ousan.

"You ain't heard 'bout him yet?"

Ousan shook his head.

"I forgot you're jus' a pup. Well whilst you were playin' kiss chase with the boys, this son of a bitch burnt his wife and child to death."

"Shit, that's pretty fucked up. Why'd he do it?"

"Some say the war made him loco. Paranoid he locked them in the basement and set fire to the house with them inside. Others say ..." he trailed off into silence.

Ousan felt a bit uneasy by the way Wealles trailed off. "Others say what? What do they say Wealles?"

"He likes his women crispy!" he slapped his thigh as he bellowed with laughter.

"You bastard, you absolute bastard."

"Don' piss ya pants. Anyway if you think I'm a bastard, wait till you see this diluted wench spawn."

"Looks like I won't have to wait much longer to meet your twin," Ousan said as they approached the cell door.

All laughter vanished immediately from the Wealles face exchanging it for a scowl. He stepped in front of Ousan and gripped his collar balling its cloth with his fist.

"Don't compare me to that piece of shit, I'm nothing like him. The quicker you realise that, the better, you got that?"

Ousan nodded weakly.

"Good, now let's get on with this," ordered Wealles.

Ousan keyed the sequence into the panel and the metal door slid open revealing a man shackled to his chair. His arms and legs were restrained by inch thick metal bracelets , whilst a black sack concealed his face.

"45875-12, looks like it's your lucky day, you're going to meet the Wizard," Wealles said in a mocking tone.

They unattached the shackles from the chair, but kept his legs and arms bound together.

"You're an ugly fella ain't cha. That's why they gotta bag up your face, to stop people throwing up. Let's see that ugly face of yours," Wealles neared the prisoner to remove his mask revealing a man in his late thirties with a scar which ran diagonally from the top of his head to the bottom of his chin, narrowly missing his left eye.

The instant the bag was removed, the prisoner raised his head quickly and head-butted Wealles, leaving Waelles on the floor with a broken nose. Like a deer in headlights, Ousan stood startled, unable to move. By the time he had regained motor control of his limbs it was already too late. The prisoner had snaked around him and trapped Ousan's neck between his cuffs, applying just enough pressure to let Ousan know he was dead if he moved.