Reaper of the Revolution

Cyrus read over the mission briefing that had been left for him, as per usual, without any explanation. Popping open the envelope he began reading the neatly typed page while standing in the doorway to a small shoe shop. Outside the wind was howling, cutting through Drum Island and its inhabitants like a frosted knife. He had been on the island for some time now and initially, the experience of snow and cold was new and exciting. However, that novelty was quickly growing old and he ached for warmer climates with bigger crowds. Drum Island itself wasn't a terribly busy island, most residents tried to stay indoors for the most part, considering just how viciously cold it could get. As a result there wasn't much chatter or interaction save for the local social spots like pubs and inns. Cyrus had decided yesterday that Drum Island was no longer meant for him and it was time to seek transport off the frozen rock. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, the higher ups in the Revolutionary Army had other plans. Cyrus was still at an impasse about the Revolutionary Army since his latest mission. He owed them a lot to be frank, they took him in, trained him, housed him, fed him, but they also pushed his limits. He realized later however, that he was simply deflecting the blame he himself had created onto the Army. It wasn't their fault that he had made and used Wildfire on the Marines. Any other organization, be it the Marines or a Pirate Crew would have him kill men. It wasn't the killing that bothered him, it was the fact that he had made something so dangerous and chaotic that it opened the floodgate or memories that he had kept at bay for so long. Watching Gene's bar burn down had bombarded him with memories of his wife and child, memories of that day. Cyrus realized he wasn't questioning his place in the Revolutionary Army, but instead he was questioning his life choice as a scientist. The last several days had been very hard, lonely days.

As he scanned over the mission briefing Cyrus frowned. This was going to be difficult, far more challenging than his last mission had been, but still doable. Truthfully the real challenge would be what came after completion of the mission. If he accepted this mission, which he didn't have much of a choice, he would turn himself into a heavily wanted man on Drum Island. Pissing off the ruling family of an entire island isn't exactly the best of ideas when you have no secured way off said island. Still, a mission was a mission and it was important to show the higher ups that he was an asset who could be trusted to carry out any given task. With a sigh, Cyrus reached up the lantern that hung in the shoe shop doorway and held the edge of the mission briefing to the flame. In seconds the paper took light, quickly disintegrating as the flames greedily devoured it. Dropping the burning stack of papers on the ground, Cyrus watched them burn into oblivion before scattering the ashes with his heel, painting the pure white snow with a thin line of black ash.

Well, first thing's first I suppose, time to find some allies. Cyrus said to no one in particular, pulling up the collar of his leather coat so as to further protect himself from the bitter cold before stepping out into the streets of Drum Island. The mission briefing had mentioned a small resistance group on the island who Cyrus himself had heard whispers of during his stay on Drum. According to his own briefing, the Revolutionaries had informed the band of rebels of Cyrus's location on the island and would be making contact with him before the set of the sun today. Cyrus sighed as he walked through the streets, unsure of what to do or where to go. This waiting game was going to take a mental toll on him in the coming hours and he hoped the rebels would act sooner rather than later. In the mean time, Cyrus figured, he might as well get drunk.

As he turned the corner down the street that would take him to his alcohol drowned destination, Cyrus passed a narrow alleyway. He didn't take much note of the alley itself, but it was in this moment that he realized just how empty the streets were today. Sure it was cold out, but these people were used to it, and Cyrus himself had experienced colder days with more people in just the short time he had been here. Before his mental inquiries could blossom into full on recognition of trouble, the world went dark.

It took Cyrus a full two seconds to realize that he was till conscious but, what felt like a canvas bag had been placed over his entire head, the bottom tightened just enough to allow him to barely breathe. Cyrus began to thrash wildly as hands were placed on him, pulling him back into the alleyway. In his right hand he swung his cane in a wide arc, feeling before hearing the crack of steel enforced cane on bone. A guttural sound escaped the lips of his attacker, and Cyrus smiled to himself as he realized he had seriously hurt the man. However, his triumph was cut short as something pricked the back of his neck, causing the world to angle almost instantly. His legs began to shake and then give out. The paralysis traveled up the rest of his body, causing his arms to go limp and his head to dangle down to his chest. Then, the lights truly went out.

Voices stirred him from his drug induced sleep, and Cyrus moved his tongue over his teeth, opening and closing his mouth several times. It was dry and tasted of copper. With a groan he opened his eyes, found himself staring down at his boots, and was thankful that his attackers had decided not to strip him. He then looked up to face the disembodied voices, blinking several times to focus. He wanted to rub the sleep from his eyes, but found his wrists chained behind the back of the chair he now sat in. The room was lit only by overhanging bulbs, casting odd shadows off of the people and objects that inhabited it. The lack of natural light bothered Cyrus for reasons he couldn't quite put into words. The place simply felt dismal, like an old dungeon that had been converted into something else, but still the feel of dungeon clung to the very being of this roomIt smelled musty, old, with poor air movement, but it was thankfully warm. Cyrus looked at the gathered men and women who now stared back at him, his awakening silencing their conversation. On a desk not five feet from him lay his cane, Crow, which had been dismantled entirely. The little bastards had even figured out how to trigger the scythe blade mechanism. Turning back to his captors Cyrus just cracked a smile and said, Hi, I'm Cyrus. I must say, I have to hand it to you, you folks certainly don't keep a guy waiting.

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