A pair of soulless pupils popped up in front of the restrained Michael Horton's face, appearing out of the thick darkness inhibiting his cell. Or, as the Merc liked to call it, the Dungeon. "How's my little organic monster faring with the rather sparkling accommodation?" He'd placed Thorn in a completely dark room underground so as to keep any sunlight from affecting his strength.
He recognized the voice. The sly, arrogant tone of his tormentor. "Go to hell." he snarled, his face caked with pale green blood, the mask haphazardly strapped back over his mouth. Dark marks still covered his flesh, wounds in the final stage of recovery.
@shadowknight666: "Do whatever the hell you want. None of it'll matter for more than a minute. But if you're gonna play it like that... I'd like some Muzak. If you're gonna torture me, might as well torture you right back."
@shadowknight666: "You think you're the only one who got called a baby killer? I made the mistake of walking on the UCLA campus during a war protest." he shrugged in his bonds. It was the first time he had actually spoken with somebody, like in actual person, in four years. But it was brief. There were more important matters at hand, and this wasn't somebody he wanted to identify with. "What does classical music have to do with getting me out of here?"