[indent][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/16dO9Jx.png[/img][/center][COLOR=yellow][INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]A B A N D ON E D  S T E E L W O R K S[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][/COLOR][sup][color=darkgray] Night  |  Unknown, Somewhere in Connecticut [/color][/sup]

The sound of crunching metal caused Clayton Burr to jolt awake. Dark splotches filled his vision for the first few disorientating seconds of consciousness. Blinking them away, Burr still couldn't quite tell where he was- shadows fell over most of his surroundings. A few overhead lights flickered a distance away, each flash revealing more of the room. The concrete floor was covered in broken glass, dirt, and discarded trash. The room itself was massive, taking up quite a few stories up and extending for at least hundreds of feet in every direction. All that distance was broken up by rows and rows of gargantuan, complex machinery whose purpose was entirely unknown to Clay.

He tried to bring his hands up to rub his eyes, only to find them bound together by something cold, hard, and sharp. His feet were dangling underneath him and he couldn't seem to find the floor no matter how far he stretched down. Something was suspending him in the air, though try as he might, he couldn't find a chain or rope attached to his person, and there didn't appear to be anything solid hoisting him up.

"What the hell is this?" Burr breathed, trying to make sense of it all. Last he could remember he was enjoying a late dinner with his wife, Marilyn. The cook had prepared an especially delicious main course of truffle tagliolini, and they'd even broken out the [i]Domaine de la Romanée-Conti[/i] to celebrate the company's record-breaking earnings for that year. He...he remembered the power going out, too, right before they'd gotten to dessert. They'd just sent Mr. Brackett and the security team to investigate when someone broke down the front door and- 

Well, he couldn't remember anything after that.

"This-" A voice suddenly called out from the darkness, just loud enough to be heard over the constant, methodical clanging of metal against metal. "This is a reckoning, Mr. Burr." A man, not young but not quite old, and with a hard to place accent. He was speaking from somewhere in the room beyond Clayton's vision, but it didn't take more than a couple of seconds of thought for it to dawn on Burr.
	
"You're him." Clayton rasped.	

"There are many hims out in the world. You'll have to be more specific than that."

"You killed my son." Burr suddenly snapped, the rage overtaking any fear he'd felt before. "I've spent a lot of money trying to find you, n' you come right to me? You're real fucking stupid, pal, I'll tell ya that much."

His threatening words were met only with a laugh. A surprisingly light and mirthful one, lacking the harshness one would expect from an unrepent murderer. The bashing, metallic ringing came to a close, and silence fell over the rundown factory for several seconds. Then came the footsteps, and a pair of dirt-caked work boots appeared in the low light. They moved forward across the floor, bringing with them a similarly dusty pair of Levis, an old maroon shirt and the unassuming man that wore them. "That's funny. I've spent a great deal of time and effort trying to find you, too. Your son told me that you'd have the names I was looking for."

"What names?"

"Of your co-conspirators, of course," His captor spoke casually, pacing forward with his hands resting behind his back. Dressed as a working man though he was, his stride was almost regal. His diction that of an educated, well-read man. "You sold Roxxon's excess oil to the tyrants, yet those ships carried so much more on them. Weapons. Mercenaries. Lab equipment and construction materials. And those...curious little collars they use to keep my people under their heel. Does any of this sound familiar?"

Burr shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"[i]Genosha.[/i] Despite the sanctions, Roxxon's been doing business with Genosha's oligarchs under the table."

"I don't know anything about that!" He protested. "Roxxon- it's a big company, lotta moving parts-"

"If you intended to keep this a secret then keeping a ledger was [i]quite[/i] the oversight." The stranger interrupted, bringing his hands around from behind his back. Clutched within them was a black book bound with leather. Unlabeled though it was, Burr recognized it immediately. This guy was serious- whoever he was.

Clayton's mouth went dry as he struggled against the strange binds that kept him suspended in the air. "Alright, f-fine. Ya caught me. But I'on't have any names for you. These ain't the type of guys that hand you a business card. They, y'know, they know how to cover their tracks."

"A trait you unfortunately lacked the foresight to mimic." His captor chuckled. "Despite that lapse in judgement, though, I know you're not stupid. This isn't the sort of operation a stupid man can run and get away with for so long. You wouldn't be working with strangers you knew nothing about. That's far, far too risky, no." He said with a finger pointed up toward Clayton. "You did your research into them, didn't you? You may not have gone far enough to get names, but...you have information I can use."

"And who the fuck are you?" Clayton let out a dogged laugh. "This ain't the kinda place the Feds would use. You a cape, like ol' Wonder Bra?"

The other man went silent and still. Stopped his pacing to stare up at Burr, a cool, indifferent sort of hate leaking from his steelish eyes. Clayton thought his blood mind flash freeze if he held his captor's gaze for a second too long and was forced to avert his own. Then, without his captor so much as twitching a finger, Burr felt a great pressure clamp down on both of his wrists, like some gargantuan thing had taken hold of each and was planning to snap them in two like twigs. Burr let out a agonized scream, the pain so monumental he hadn't even noticed that he was descending toward the ground.

"You took that luxury away from me." He spoke in a low tone, calm, yet with something terrible bubbling just underneath the surface. Something begging to be let out. "She and others like her had the luxury to be born in a place like this, where their gifts are seen as just that. Somewhere men like you haven't gotten your claws in yet. No, no. I can't afford [i]heroism.[/i] My name is Erik, and I...I am fruit of your labor. And you're going to tell me everything I want to know."[/indent]