[b]18-8-2039
New Xanathan City (formerly Cape Town, South Africa)[/b]

The bend of a subterranean hallway stretched into harsh halogen infinity as Operator Brighton muttered internally, eyes drawn to narrow slits. [i]It’s been two fucking weeks since I put in my request for a tinted visor. Nothing better than standing guard for an asshole egomaniac while these lamps roast my fucking retinas.[/i] A gnashed wad of up-gum sank against his cheek and flooded his system with a cocktail of stimulants. He pulled up the time on his HUD and audibly groaned. Another hour til midnight and Edwards showed up to replace him. 

<< Howzit, gomgat? All ready to tuck in and skommel in your bunk? >> Van Wyk's brogue rumbled in Brighton's earpiece. The gruff Afrikaaner at the helm of the sector's surveillance hub cast the hallway's feed on the main screen and gave a hearty chuckle as a solitary armored figure gave him the middle finger. The austere grey of the Xanathan Defense Suit complemented the corridor’s aseptic atmosphere. << You’d love that, you cheeky poes. >> With a leaden hand Van Wyk smashed the console’s keys. A white glare filled the surveillance hub’s cramped interior as the hushed roar of static dominated the main screen. [i]Wat die…[/i] << Brighton, take a looksie at our guest. His room’s feed is stukkend. >>

The room returned to its previous gloominess as Van Wyk pulled up the corridor camera. He watched as Brighton turned, powering on the stun baton clenched in his fist. The Operator pulled open the cell’s preliminary observation panel then stopped dead in his tracks.

<< Copy. Alright gollum, it’s time to wake up. You know the rou-- >>

[center][b]Moments earlier…[/b][/center]
The withering husk of Bharata Rendenvauld barely made an impression on the mnem-plas mattress. Through a false window in the cell’s far wall trickled in a beam of synthesized moonlight. Each artificial mote was like a fresh lash for light itself had become tortuous in his current state. Bharata laid there, gaze cast towards a darkened corner when a voice unknown to him arose from the void. It slithered through the cell’s honeycombed panels; softer and colder than any synthetic lunarcy. 

[i]And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.[/i]

“Not… fucking… poetry…” Bharata mustered through ragged breaths. His tongue hung slack and swollen from an open mouth. The wall and ceiling closest to him were pulled into one another as a spatial distortion tore through the cell’s defenses. With a shudder, reality stabilized as an amorphous entity stepped into the chamber. Bharata’s head swung sickeningly as sallow grey eyes rolled back into his skull. Death was coming, if not here already. 

[i]Not yet, Mr. Rendenvauld.[/i]

A ringed digit, long and pale, pressed upon Bharata’s forehead and drew him back from the void. His vision swam with delirium as the entity before him congealed into the mostly humanoid form of a lithe gentleman dressed in a finely tailored suit. The figure leaned forward, nearly driving the jagged bill of their Ibis-mask into Bharata’s chest. He studied the masterful leatherwork of the mask when a twinge of horror gripped the base of his skull: that’s no mask. 


[i]I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye.
[/i]

“Hey, Bird-Face! Just kill me… if you’re going to... bring me back for poetry.”

[i]Very amusing, Mr. Rendenvauld. Would you like to continue being so particularly amusing?[/i]

The finger pressed against Bharata’s forehead withdrew slightly as its bezel rotated along a non-euclidean axis. The ring opened to reveal an abyssal seal; the profane sigil roiled as the object of Bharata’s desires grew closer to material reality.