Assumptions are never correct.

[Freidrich Antmann]

A busy man such as Freidrich Antmann didn't have time for news broadcasts and radio reports on things he'd expected to be carried out; he wanted to hear it, so to say, from the horse's mouth. The informant came first, just as he'd instructed, sounded by the press of a button just outside the external, steel, door. "Agent Antmann," was all the informant said, after his superior had palmed the button to release the locking mechanism of the doors. He did so without a word, and carried on with his work. Tightening a strap here, resettling the black blindfold over the subject's eyes.

"Ja?" he questioned. When there was no answer, he turned a quick glance over his shoulder. "Was ist es?" There was, of course, the chance that he looked every bit the mad scientist right then and there; what with the stark white labcoat, looming over his subject, suspended in animation for that instance when he questioned his subordinate. "I do not have all day.." he trailed, using the native tongue, just in case he'd been misunderstood.

"It's done." The informant said slowly, as if he were afraid of being overheard. Calculated, even, because the lot of them knew not to try to figure out just how the man might react if something sounded wrong to him. And god forbid he go on a tangent in German..

"Very good," he praised, dryly. "Gibt es eine Anzahl?" When he got no response, his stare intensified as if he were being out-right ignored. "Is there a count, boy?" He repeated, again, in English before reaching up to rake a hand through the dark hair that had decided to go astray today; sticking up in lazy spikes here and there, or a bed-headed mess -- it was hard to differentiate the two, when it came to Freidrich Antmann.

"No. No, sir. You didn't specify that was what you wished.. we thought it more of a warning." The informant proceeded, straightening his shoulders and locking his hands behind his back formally.

The man stared hard at his informant before a chilling smile of sorts settled on his tired face. "Ich hätte besser wissen müssen. Bist du alles sinnlos, Sie wissen, richtig? Faule Säcke Scheiße." He paused momentarily, just to take up a syringe from the metal surgical table to his left. Lifting it up, it was flicked twice to clear it of air, and the plunger pressed up a bit. "When I don't specify, do not assume I do not wish it to be." The words he spoke were still full of venom, masked by the art of properly inserting the needle and delivering the injection to his seemingly unconscious subject. It wasn't but a half-second later before the man, who's limbs were indeed strapped down to the chair from his wrists to his biceps, to his ankles to his thighs, began jerking violently. Had there not been the gag in his mouth, the muffled cries and pants of wasted breath would have been more intense. "If I'd not wished a casualty, I'd have specified. Are we clear?"

"Das nächste Mal nicht umhin mich. Do not fail me, or you will be the casualty."

The informant turned away upon that with only a nod of understanding. He palmed the button to let himself out, and took a deep, inaudible breath after slipping past the doors that hadn't yet opened all the way.

Friedrich shook his head, watching to be sure the doors closed automatically as they were supposed to. An exhasperated sigh fell from his black lungs, a graveled tone leaving his mouth as he muttered down at the subject who'd barely hear him. "Ich bin von Idioten umgeben. Idiots, I tell you. Do you think a one of them know how important it is to reclaim what is our's? Nein. None of them." For a moment, it was quite possible he'd even frowned. "But you," he said, reaching down to peel the blindfold back from the man who, now, would likely not be seeing a thing; whatever he'd been injected with was working it's magic: He'd went still, and a placid, docile, expression settled on his face..

"Sie könnten die sein, die das ändert.."