Markov 'Clockwork' Spesivstev

Theme:

-- Clockwork taking aim at a flock of mutated bats, shortly before the death of his Novice-Stalker apprentice


Clockwork glances up through his mask's lens, rain pooling on the thick glass, his suit creasing and making soft, faint noise as he carefully picks his way through the rubble of the destroyed city, the rain intensifying till nothing but the drone of water and thunder can be heard. He coughs quietly into his mask, eyes narrowing as he makes three long sweeps over the surrounding area, left hand gripping the handle of his machete, his rifle slung on his back, He glances back towards to a nearby building, the sounds of gunfire barely audible over the cascading water, snickering to himself as he listens to the frustrated screams and cries of the approaching group. 'Times up...' he says to himself, slowly fading into the shadows.

Clockwork settles into the shadows as four armed men quickly sprint past, swearing as they quickly reload their weaponry, his head turns slowly, tracking them as he waits for a few more moments. The wait pays off, six more men run past, laughing and occasionally stopping to fire off a few pot-shots at the quickly retreating group of four, as the men move off, Clockwork tosses a rock behind the sixth man's head, it bounces off the wall and clinks against his helmet. The man stops in his tracks and turns a complete, sudden 180, sweeping the darkness behind him with his flashlight and rifle. The man takes a few, slow steps forwards, frowning beneath his mask as he reaches up to wipe the accumulating water from it.

'One.'

The man's eyes go wide as a quick blur of metallic steel passes across his throat, severing his vocal cords and jugular veins, his hands close around his own throat as he coughs and chokes, frantically turning back as he tries to run towards his group, only to have a sudden, sharp pain erupt in the back of his legs, he collapses to the ground, the Achilles tendons cut. Clockwork quickly steps over, swinging the machete down through the man's mask and head, it stops once the blade reaches the area between his eyes. Clockwork then stands, silently stalking after the remaining five.

"Hold up!, Where's Alexei?". The group halts, each man raising his rifle to a ready position, flashlights flickering on as they glance around, the rain intensifying slowly. The apparently leader, a man carrying by far the largest weapon, an Automatic shotgun, glances at the fifth man, "Well?" he asks. The fifth man shrugs, "No idea, maybe he turned back? He isn't one for rain, y'know?" The leader sighs, shaking his head, "Yea...yea...alright guys, keep moving, those idiots couldn't have gotten far..." The leader begins to move, the group following behind in near-single file. Orderly, as if they were attempting to emulate the military of the old world.

"Two.."

Clockwork suddenly lunges out of the darkness as a thunderclap goes off, muffling the impact of the rear-guard's un-helmeted head as it smashes against a large chunk of concrete. Clockwork grabs the man's head and lifts it back up, before slamming it down into the concrete, again and again, until the back of the man's skull resembles a cracked and destroyed egg. He stands, crouch-crawling back into the shadows.

As time passes, Clockwork slowly rips the group apart, upon noticing the fifth man's disappearance the group had tightened up into a four-man 'circle', Each man's rifle raised in their own specific direction, no overlapping. Clockwork shakes his head, eyes narrowing as he whispers to himself, "Easy meat for the tunnel trash....". He suddenly lunges out, diving past the group, his machete slicing the fourth man's right hand clean off, his Kalash clattering to the floor with a loud, metallic crescendo, He screams and staggers backwards, knocking the other three over and stumbling into the shadows.

"Three."

The man's cries of pain cease with a wet, pained gurgle. The remaining three shudder and tighten up their formations, hands gripping their rifles hard, eyes wide as they scan the ruins, A shadow-soaked figure suddenly lunges out only to be filled with bullets, It drops to the ground with a dull thud, the life fading from the fourth man's eyes, extinguished by his own comrade's bullets. The third man staggers back in shock, swearing, "Fuck fuck FUCK!, That was Bach!?, What the FUCK is happen-". The man is cut off, Clockwork's hands closing around his head as he slams his metal-padded knee into the fourth man's spine, there's a sickening -crack-, as Clockwork gives a quick twist, snapping both the man's neck and spine in two quick moves. He jumps back into the shadows, the two remaining men nearly catching them with their flashlights.

"Four...Five."

"Oh god, Oh Christ, What is happening?!" Yells the fifth man, glancing towards his commander, his eyes go wide as he sees the man's head slowly peel off of his neck, stopping about 2/3rds of the way. The Commander turns as best he can, staggering towards the fifth man before sliding down to his knees, his body slumping against a pile of rubble, blood draining from his body as it cascades from his mouth and neck.

The fifth man, now the only survivor, suddenly lets loose, his finger pressing down on his rifle's trigger as he slowly turns in a wide, 180 degree arc, the bullets ripping apart the concrete and stone surrounding him, a few digging into his former comrade's flesh. Once the clip is spent, he slowly backs up, sweeping the area with his flashlight as he pulls out a fresh magazine, he begins shaking as he tries to reload.

"Six."

The man lets out a pained scream as Clockwork's machete blade erupts from his chest, Clockwork's free arm hooking around his throat. He squeezes hard, quickly cutting the screams off as he whispers, "Ssh...shh...It'll all be over soon, stranger..". The fifth man tries to yank himself away, Clockwork simply tightens his grip on the man's throat, crushing the cartilage and wind pipes, choking the man as he twists and yanks the machete side to side, he then flips it over, sharp-side-up, and gives it a tug, the blade sticking into the man's ribs and the bottom of his lungs, before yanking it out. He kicks the dying man over onto his stomach, shaking his head as he slowly steps back into the shadows.

"Six down...Four to go."

Nobody really knows where Clockwork came from, nor do they know his age, date of birth, or if he was born inside, or outside, of the Metro, with his extensive knowledge of the above-ground areas, It's widely assumed that he was born Topside.

Markov started out his life in the Metro as one of the 'Stalkers', a group of odd, faintly crazy men who would do intense surface scavenging trips in order to bring back the much-needed materials and supplies required to keep the Metro-cities up and running. Eventually, after a solid six years spent running back and forth between the surface, and the Metro, he managed to settle down and he managed to start a family, two biological sons, and two adopted children, one another boy, the other a girl.

As time went on, Markov's mind began to slowly fracture as his mind and conscious caught up with him, Each night he would be plagued by nightmares of past deeds, of what he had seen. Men being devoured by the mutants, Women and children gunned down like cattle, and the cold, endless void of loathing as he watched himself slaughter fellow men like rats. The dreams would continue to haunt his mind, always there, always waiting for the moment when Markov's eyes would close, waiting for the moment to rip his mind and humanity to pieces.

Eventually Markov snapped, having watched his sons get gunned down by invading Reich, and his daughter blown apart by the 'defending' Redline, He went on a rampage, swinging his machete, the steel cutting through the flesh of Redline and Nazi alike. Eventually the rage, anger and pain faded away and Markov found himself on the surface, back against a large, stone pillar, his gasmask cracked and the barrel of his rifle warped from the heat of constant gunfire. He slowly stood up, shaking his head in anger and despair before walking off, heading deep into the ruined city, his old life ruined.


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Good god I hate myself for this, that. Was. Fucking. Terrible.
Why cant I write good backstories Q __ Q

That was sad!!! T.T

Markov is back... Shit will go down.

Interesting man, was a good read.