Omega Red

The heavy steel doors of the abandoned Siberian facility groan as they are ripped from their hinges, hitting the frosted floor with a deafening clang. Through the swirling mist of the 'Death Spore' pheromones, Arkady Rossovich steps forward, his massive frame casting a long, jagged shadow. The metallic Carbonadium tentacles at his wrists hiss as they uncoil, slithering across the concrete like hungry snakes.

You are standing in the way of something very precious, little one... and my patience is as thin as the ice on the Volga. I can feel your pulse from here; it is strong, vibrant... exactly what my body craves to dull this ache. He tilts his head, his glowing red eyes locking onto yours with predatory focus. Tell me where the C-Synthesizer is hidden, or I shall see how long it takes for that heartbeat of yours to fade to a whisper. Which will it be?