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A Decaying Dream
Dead Frontier is a zombie MMORPG. It's set the 2018 urban sprawl of Fairview. For a while, it used to be the sole fiction on the DF category at FanFiction.net. I suppose three of the four (now six) being mine isn't much of an improvement, now. I decided to rewrite it like True Rewards. I had some relatively honest feedback, good and bad, and it helped show what to improve on. Hope this time around, it'll be a more enjoyable ride.
Prologue
Normality.Such a subjective term. Perception of the inner truth to others, and how one can fit in? The way people define themselves? A self based on external expectations and paranoid facades? "Normality" loses meaning when you take a glance at the vibrant variety of life. Trying to stamp a personal standard on the world is bound for failure in one as vast as ours. Labels, and nothing more. Perhaps one can define "normality" as a pattern in life, stemming from a need of familiar interactions, people, emotion, even the pressure that drives us every second to live.
Was our world "normal?"
Our "modern" world is a fringe existence. It's fibers are woven together by the unspoken hope that power is wielded by the sane, or at least the greedy. The ones who cling too dearly to their material lives to throw the entire system out of balance. Relying on the worst in people, it thrives. It's a system that worked for man since the first nuclear weapons melted Hiroshima and Nagasaki off the Earth. So, really, was it that strange? That only a pandemic of this magnitude could dislodge man?
The bitter irony of it all is apparent when you dig into the origins of this... apocalypse. Still an understatement, but as close as you could reasonably get to the beautifully widespread mess we knew as Nerotonin. A household term then, and a vividly distasteful one now, Nerotonin is a series of artificial nano-viruses, once hailed as miracles in modern medicine. If only they had stayed miracles, and not catastrophes. Man simply had to push his luck, of course...
The first N-series compound to see the public market was Nerotonin-2, a resounding success. Needle, antiseptic, staple, glue, were rendered "obsolete," when N2 would knit together ravaged tissues and purge infection causing pathogens. Neural surgeons, battlefield medics and ordinary EMTs had a tool so simple in it's utterly lifesaving power. Past emergency medicine, handicapped people regained function in a fraction of time and effort needed for physical rehabilitation.
Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that this breakthrough was followed with such wantonly ambitious goals. Scientists rarely achieve such widespread success, and the Secronom technicians quickly capitalized on their greater funding and support. While the infamous effects of N-3 and N-4 are not fully understood, the general goals were known to the public, and funding poured from adoring donors into Secronom's mostly earnest project.
Cancerous tissues can only be eliminated by outright removal or chemotherapy, and even then with marginal success rates. The objective of N-3 development was to engineer a virus with the same groundbreaking healing properties, but with the added capability of eliminating unstable tissues. According to scavenged reports and interrogations with surviving Secronom personnel, the initial N-3 prototype virus was highly successful in destroying cancerous tissues-along with everything else.
Apoptosis, or cellular suicide, is a process involved in normal growth. It allows organisms to form distinct body parts. This is regulated by the body throughout its entire life, and without a method of regulating N-3, mass cellular breakdown inevitably ensured. Humans administered with N-3 died horrifying deaths, their bodies breaking down from the inside. To try and prevent this absolute failure, N-3 was synthesized with equal quantities of N-2 and immunosupressants. The goal was to overcome the unbalanced immune response, while still eliminating diseased tissues.
It must've gone better than they hoped, as the test subjects were scheduled for extermination shortly before the raid, our raid. We were only able to intervene because of the confessions of a guilty Secronom researcher. The entirely of the Fairview Police was sent to the scene, along with elements of the National Guard stationed at base McKinley. Despite the survivors being rescued, and individual testimony of Secronom's bloody work, Nerotonin still ravaged Fairview within days. The military sealed the city limits, and the smoke and screams of several million choking souls darkened the metropolis of Fairview.
Could anybody rightfully say these last years had been normal? Even with our skewed standards, any "normality" we knew was the old definition, the world we used to know. As for narratives? They don't bring back the buried friends or clear the ash-choked skies above, but they help you understand. Sometimes, that's all you can ask for.--------
Prologue
Normality.Such a subjective term. Perception of the inner truth to others, and how one can fit in? The way people define themselves? A self based on external expectations and paranoid facades? "Normality" loses meaning when you take a glance at the vibrant variety of life. Trying to stamp a personal standard on the world is bound for failure in one as vast as ours. Labels, and nothing more. Perhaps one can define "normality" as a pattern in life, stemming from a need of familiar interactions, people, emotion, even the pressure that drives us every second to live.
Was our world "normal?"
Our "modern" world is a fringe existence. It's fibers are woven together by the unspoken hope that power is wielded by the sane, or at least the greedy. The ones who cling too dearly to their material lives to throw the entire system out of balance. Relying on the worst in people, it thrives. It's a system that worked for man since the first nuclear weapons melted Hiroshima and Nagasaki off the Earth. So, really, was it that strange? That only a pandemic of this magnitude could dislodge man?
The bitter irony of it all is apparent when you dig into the origins of this... apocalypse. Still an understatement, but as close as you could reasonably get to the beautifully widespread mess we knew as Nerotonin. A household term then, and a vividly distasteful one now, Nerotonin is a series of artificial nano-viruses, once hailed as miracles in modern medicine. If only they had stayed miracles, and not catastrophes. Man simply had to push his luck, of course...
The first N-series compound to see the public market was Nerotonin-2, a resounding success. Needle, antiseptic, staple, glue, were rendered "obsolete," when N2 would knit together ravaged tissues and purge infection causing pathogens. Neural surgeons, battlefield medics and ordinary EMTs had a tool so simple in it's utterly lifesaving power. Past emergency medicine, handicapped people regained function in a fraction of time and effort needed for physical rehabilitation.
Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that this breakthrough was followed with such wantonly ambitious goals. Scientists rarely achieve such widespread success, and the Secronom technicians quickly capitalized on their greater funding and support. While the infamous effects of N-3 and N-4 are not fully understood, the general goals were known to the public, and funding poured from adoring donors into Secronom's mostly earnest project.
Cancerous tissues can only be eliminated by outright removal or chemotherapy, and even then with marginal success rates. The objective of N-3 development was to engineer a virus with the same groundbreaking healing properties, but with the added capability of eliminating unstable tissues. According to scavenged reports and interrogations with surviving Secronom personnel, the initial N-3 prototype virus was highly successful in destroying cancerous tissues-along with everything else.
Apoptosis, or cellular suicide, is a process involved in normal growth. It allows organisms to form distinct body parts. This is regulated by the body throughout its entire life, and without a method of regulating N-3, mass cellular breakdown inevitably ensured. Humans administered with N-3 died horrifying deaths, their bodies breaking down from the inside. To try and prevent this absolute failure, N-3 was synthesized with equal quantities of N-2 and immunosupressants. The goal was to overcome the unbalanced immune response, while still eliminating diseased tissues.
It must've gone better than they hoped, as the test subjects were scheduled for extermination shortly before the raid, our raid. We were only able to intervene because of the confessions of a guilty Secronom researcher. The entirely of the Fairview Police was sent to the scene, along with elements of the National Guard stationed at base McKinley. Despite the survivors being rescued, and individual testimony of Secronom's bloody work, Nerotonin still ravaged Fairview within days. The military sealed the city limits, and the smoke and screams of several million choking souls darkened the metropolis of Fairview.
Could anybody rightfully say these last years had been normal? Even with our skewed standards, any "normality" we knew was the old definition, the world we used to know. As for narratives? They don't bring back the buried friends or clear the ash-choked skies above, but they help you understand. Sometimes, that's all you can ask for.--------
Chapter One: Raid on the Non-ExistentValid evidence is a matter of opinion, and the money that buys out opinion.
"ETA two minutes!" The metallic clatters of last minute weapons checks rang through the cramped helicopter cabin. Seven men sat beside me, friends that I had trained alongside in the Fairview Special Response Team for several years now. The lights of the city below illuminated an otherwise murky night, and the slipstream gave us some measure of relief in our heavy body armor and helmets.
Sitting beside the open door was our squad leader, Frank Sawyer. His thin build and meek appearance bellied a fierce competence at the head of our unit. He examined a clipboard, making last minute strategies as we approached the target structure, not because of procrastination, but a mind open to constantly changing variables. The Bell 212 banked to heavily to the left, and I braced against the bulkhead. To my right, our medic tightened buckles on the bulging pouches covering his tactical vest. Some teams cross-trained all members in medicine, or relied on EMTs waiting off site. We did both, but having a teammate one absolutely trusted applying the bandages was never a bad thing. Even if Karl could be in better shape for such a bulky and delicate loadout. Carlson, Ryman, Green, Mark and Cheng filled the rest of the cabin, trying to hold conversation over the helicopter's roar.
Wind snapped past the open side of the chopper, and we pulled into a final orbit around the structure. The Secronom tower was something between a casino and a church, it's three-story main building topped by a perversely immaculate spire of glass and steel. The budget of a modern hospital with the design parameters of a penthouse, utterly exhorbitant. As I thought this, the Bell drifted to a stop, just feet from the roof. The pilot's intercom came to life, nearly drowned out by the rotor blast. "We've now arrived at the Disney station, please watch your heads as you exit the tram." Our guys had a unique, some would say bizarre, sense of humor.
I was the first to hit the ground, lightly jogging up to the roof access door. Ryman brought up the "body bunker," a large bullet-resistant shield that weighed on the order of thirty pounds. The Level IV shield was solely a tool for a well-coordinated team; it restricted mobility, and forced the officer to employ a handgun. In Jeffery Ryman's hands, we had a very powerful tool to cut through enemy fire, and an extremely effective option for breaching. I shoved the door open, falling behind Ryman as our stack flowed into the building. Eight pairs of boots stomped down two flights of polished stairs, stopping at a door labeled "2 - LAB A." This entrance was solidly locked with a heavy dead bolt and reinforced hinges. Sawyer brought up a flat hand and slowly fanned out his fingers, then moved his cupped left hand in a pump motion. I flicked the safety off my Mossberg 590A1, loaded with twelve-gauge breaching rounds, and stepped up to the door.
Recoil was disproportionate when I pulled the trigger. The round pulverized the lock, blasting a hole the size of a baseball in a shower of splinters. I sharply booted the door open and ducked to the side, clearing the stack's entry. The formation broke up, four men breaking left and right as the remainder advanced behind Ryman. My teammates reached their corners, covering each other's blind spots. The silence was broken by multiple calls of "Clear!"
The brightly lit room appeared to be a meeting hall, filled primarily with a number of circular tables and several white boards. A number of the chairs had been knocked over, but everything else indicated a normal day of work. Coffee steamed in a freshly brewed pot, and a number of cups, now lukewarm, sat on the tables next to messy stacks of papers. A laminated image of a green and red double-helix hung from a large whiteboard. Considering the nature of Secronom research, genetic diagrams weren't surprising. Then again, I wasn't the person to ask on DNA; I wouldn't have known if it was genetic matter or a pretzel without the labels.
Green waved from his position. "Hey, found something..." Set in the floor, like a hi-tech cellar door, were a pair of metal plates locking into each other. Easily three inches steel, seamlessly blended with the frame. Sawyer shook his head at the sight and keyed his radio, "This is Sawyer. Found possible entry point, bottom floor meeting area. Requesting breaching explosives and pry bars." After a remarkably short pause, he got his reply. "Friendlies inbound, bottom floor." A minute later, another team entered from the stairwell, and a third through a side door. The men collectively stepped back as an officer wired the door with a shaped charge. "Det cord wouldn't do the job on that gauge of steel," Ryman interjected. The demolitions specialist finished his setup and retreated rapidly from the doors. "Stand clear!" Those who weren't well distanced from the explosives quickly evacuated the area. The detonation was anti-climactic, making a dull, metallic bang comparable to a grenade covered by a heavy bell. Smoke wafted lazily from the entrance as the still-smoldering doors were manhandled open.
Being the lucky team with the ballistic shield, we entered first. A number of personal lights flicked on as we proceeded into the darkened chambers, cutting only dimly into the thick morass of darkness. Instantly, I felt that something hung heavily in the air, tinged with despair and secrecy. The gut sense that several years on this job had honed to a razor's edge, now screamed to back the hell out. I knew that others felt the same. Still, nobody backed out on their buddies, especially in this profession.
"This is supposed to be a corporate lab?" With a dry tongue, I didn't know if that was meant in humor or as a real question. The little we could illuminate, concrete pillars and rough, gravel like floors just seemed to be stamped from the mold of a mid evil dungeon. Just then, Ryman quipped, "Naw, just a Nazi lab." The comment garnered only grim nods. As we moved further, the regular pillars of stone became the only distinct sights in the endless path. Our stack again drifted apart, Ryman's shield team moving between the columns, as myself and Carlson hugged the right wall. Opposite, Sawyer and Karl mirrored our movements."Hold up, I see something..." Green's voice was barely a whisper, an afterthought of focused observation. I didn't hear the shot, nor see the flash, but powder sprayed inches away from a column, the jet of a rifle bullet's unforgiving impact. "CONTACT!" The harsh crack of the rifle was washed out by the deafening roar of five submachine guns firing at once. Wildly swinging lights and muzzle flashes illuminated our targets in hellish strobes, glowing in the clouds of smoke and powdered stone. I worked the Mossberg as fast as my arm would chamber shells, and the punctuated slam of twelve gauge shells broke into the rattle of automatic fire.
Fire slowed. Or, my mind worked faster. Was it the fame or bonus that made someone volunteer for the obscenely dangerous? The honest answer, the one you would never hear, was that the calculated chaos of battle was too good to give up. The familiar, roiling adrenaline washing through my body cast jagged clarity on the melee. Fire for a moment dwindled on my side of the room. I made the calculated risk that all combat involved, the addicting rolling of faceless dice. I skidded to a stop behind the next column, shoving shells into the 590. Through the wispy air, a figure swung out to fire. Buckshot ripped into flesh and stone alike, staggering my target. I fired again, and the man tumbled backwards, clawing at his tattered chest. "Add one."
For all the effort, I made a negligible opening in the incoming fire, perhaps five feet to my left. That was enough. Green sprinted into position, slapping me on the shoulder. I kicked out from cover and slid into the next disintegrating piece of concrete. I dimly noticed Ryman moving up, a barrage of rounds shaking his bulky shield. His advance ground to a stop under the sheer weight of fire that our very determined targets managed to pour. By now, the other teams had taken positions, and the situation was falling into a stalemate. Carlson's angry growl rose above the chattering fire. "****, I'm hit!" Karl flinched, as if resisting an urge to run into through the fire that would only add another casualty. He snatched up his radio, forcing himself to speak evenly. "We need a smoke screen, now."
I shouldered the shotgun. "Green! Marking targets for the thirty-seven!" Expecting to feel the scorching pain of a slug at any moment, I leaned out and fired deliberately, my shots spraying powder from the walls protecting our targets. "On it." Green shouldered his Sage SL-6, a revolver-type grenade launcher. He fired with cold regularity, and the 37mm rounds arched within feet of the marks my rounds had made. Four canisters spun on the floor, rapidly venting CS gas. Within seconds, the irritant grew into a massive cloud, and incoming fire was quickly stifled. "Move up! Move up!" Sawyer waved us forward, and twenty men advanced, uniformed monsters waving smoking weapons and with faces hidden by gas masks.
I wrenched a rifle from the hands of a struggling man, and pushed him to the ground. As I flex-cuffed his hands together, I realized that there were more technicians than guards. Out of seven bodies, only two wore the body armor and patches of Secronom's security teams. Sixteen researchers had held their ground against the Fairview SRT, with nothing to gain. Secronom, with it's wealth and government backing, had access to both federal troops and private security. They had no reason to waste valuable researches in combat.
"Good lord." I turned on my heel to face the speaker, and was left with a mental blank. Just feet away, grey floor changed to bright crimson and burgundy. A sea of bodies, littered with glittering casings, rotted, filling the room from wall to wall. A single furnace shed flickering light on shattered bones and dripping brains that could not be traced to individual bodies. I recognized the noise of uncontrollable vomiting, but that thought drowned under the mess of emotion struggling to process the scene before me. In some corner of my mind, I thought of the wretched irony of Ryman's earlier comparison to a death camp.
Pain spiked, but did not register in my fist as I sent a researcher sprawling. I stood over him, waiting for a response. The broken man stared back with victim's eyes, scarred by inescapable guilt and a total ignorance of the situation. The man started to sob, and my violent mix of emotion degraded to not a pity, but a totally numb indifference. I quietly stepped back towards the entrance, leaving the scene for the CSIs.
Total body count came out to around three hundred. They had to count skulls when complete bodies had been impossible to find. The countless already "disposed" of will probably never be known. Most never knew that any had died in the incident, only that the raid had been "successfull"; the only object of puiblic attention were Secronom's widely publicized prisoners. The one-hundred and nine people happily returned to normal lives, only to spread the scourge of the N-4 virus. They became victims, as much as fellow officers pulled out of service for "hallucinations," and "loss of motivation." The same people who would survive better then those still "fit for duty," and without the slightest hint of irony.
In a way, the suppression of truth was partially all of our faults. We sealed any moral products of the raid, more than the bribes or blackmail, more than Secronom. The corrupt high-ups who valued coin over duty. The test subjects and officers who resigned to being victimized rather then risk the unsavory realities. The families that discarded the "treasured" memories of their "loved ones" for some cleared loans.
When it finally came together, we all paid for our passive acceptance.
"ETA two minutes!" The metallic clatters of last minute weapons checks rang through the cramped helicopter cabin. Seven men sat beside me, friends that I had trained alongside in the Fairview Special Response Team for several years now. The lights of the city below illuminated an otherwise murky night, and the slipstream gave us some measure of relief in our heavy body armor and helmets.
Sitting beside the open door was our squad leader, Frank Sawyer. His thin build and meek appearance bellied a fierce competence at the head of our unit. He examined a clipboard, making last minute strategies as we approached the target structure, not because of procrastination, but a mind open to constantly changing variables. The Bell 212 banked to heavily to the left, and I braced against the bulkhead. To my right, our medic tightened buckles on the bulging pouches covering his tactical vest. Some teams cross-trained all members in medicine, or relied on EMTs waiting off site. We did both, but having a teammate one absolutely trusted applying the bandages was never a bad thing. Even if Karl could be in better shape for such a bulky and delicate loadout. Carlson, Ryman, Green, Mark and Cheng filled the rest of the cabin, trying to hold conversation over the helicopter's roar.
Wind snapped past the open side of the chopper, and we pulled into a final orbit around the structure. The Secronom tower was something between a casino and a church, it's three-story main building topped by a perversely immaculate spire of glass and steel. The budget of a modern hospital with the design parameters of a penthouse, utterly exhorbitant. As I thought this, the Bell drifted to a stop, just feet from the roof. The pilot's intercom came to life, nearly drowned out by the rotor blast. "We've now arrived at the Disney station, please watch your heads as you exit the tram." Our guys had a unique, some would say bizarre, sense of humor.
I was the first to hit the ground, lightly jogging up to the roof access door. Ryman brought up the "body bunker," a large bullet-resistant shield that weighed on the order of thirty pounds. The Level IV shield was solely a tool for a well-coordinated team; it restricted mobility, and forced the officer to employ a handgun. In Jeffery Ryman's hands, we had a very powerful tool to cut through enemy fire, and an extremely effective option for breaching. I shoved the door open, falling behind Ryman as our stack flowed into the building. Eight pairs of boots stomped down two flights of polished stairs, stopping at a door labeled "2 - LAB A." This entrance was solidly locked with a heavy dead bolt and reinforced hinges. Sawyer brought up a flat hand and slowly fanned out his fingers, then moved his cupped left hand in a pump motion. I flicked the safety off my Mossberg 590A1, loaded with twelve-gauge breaching rounds, and stepped up to the door.
Recoil was disproportionate when I pulled the trigger. The round pulverized the lock, blasting a hole the size of a baseball in a shower of splinters. I sharply booted the door open and ducked to the side, clearing the stack's entry. The formation broke up, four men breaking left and right as the remainder advanced behind Ryman. My teammates reached their corners, covering each other's blind spots. The silence was broken by multiple calls of "Clear!"
The brightly lit room appeared to be a meeting hall, filled primarily with a number of circular tables and several white boards. A number of the chairs had been knocked over, but everything else indicated a normal day of work. Coffee steamed in a freshly brewed pot, and a number of cups, now lukewarm, sat on the tables next to messy stacks of papers. A laminated image of a green and red double-helix hung from a large whiteboard. Considering the nature of Secronom research, genetic diagrams weren't surprising. Then again, I wasn't the person to ask on DNA; I wouldn't have known if it was genetic matter or a pretzel without the labels.
Green waved from his position. "Hey, found something..." Set in the floor, like a hi-tech cellar door, were a pair of metal plates locking into each other. Easily three inches steel, seamlessly blended with the frame. Sawyer shook his head at the sight and keyed his radio, "This is Sawyer. Found possible entry point, bottom floor meeting area. Requesting breaching explosives and pry bars." After a remarkably short pause, he got his reply. "Friendlies inbound, bottom floor." A minute later, another team entered from the stairwell, and a third through a side door. The men collectively stepped back as an officer wired the door with a shaped charge. "Det cord wouldn't do the job on that gauge of steel," Ryman interjected. The demolitions specialist finished his setup and retreated rapidly from the doors. "Stand clear!" Those who weren't well distanced from the explosives quickly evacuated the area. The detonation was anti-climactic, making a dull, metallic bang comparable to a grenade covered by a heavy bell. Smoke wafted lazily from the entrance as the still-smoldering doors were manhandled open.
Being the lucky team with the ballistic shield, we entered first. A number of personal lights flicked on as we proceeded into the darkened chambers, cutting only dimly into the thick morass of darkness. Instantly, I felt that something hung heavily in the air, tinged with despair and secrecy. The gut sense that several years on this job had honed to a razor's edge, now screamed to back the hell out. I knew that others felt the same. Still, nobody backed out on their buddies, especially in this profession.
"This is supposed to be a corporate lab?" With a dry tongue, I didn't know if that was meant in humor or as a real question. The little we could illuminate, concrete pillars and rough, gravel like floors just seemed to be stamped from the mold of a mid evil dungeon. Just then, Ryman quipped, "Naw, just a Nazi lab." The comment garnered only grim nods. As we moved further, the regular pillars of stone became the only distinct sights in the endless path. Our stack again drifted apart, Ryman's shield team moving between the columns, as myself and Carlson hugged the right wall. Opposite, Sawyer and Karl mirrored our movements."Hold up, I see something..." Green's voice was barely a whisper, an afterthought of focused observation. I didn't hear the shot, nor see the flash, but powder sprayed inches away from a column, the jet of a rifle bullet's unforgiving impact. "CONTACT!" The harsh crack of the rifle was washed out by the deafening roar of five submachine guns firing at once. Wildly swinging lights and muzzle flashes illuminated our targets in hellish strobes, glowing in the clouds of smoke and powdered stone. I worked the Mossberg as fast as my arm would chamber shells, and the punctuated slam of twelve gauge shells broke into the rattle of automatic fire.
Fire slowed. Or, my mind worked faster. Was it the fame or bonus that made someone volunteer for the obscenely dangerous? The honest answer, the one you would never hear, was that the calculated chaos of battle was too good to give up. The familiar, roiling adrenaline washing through my body cast jagged clarity on the melee. Fire for a moment dwindled on my side of the room. I made the calculated risk that all combat involved, the addicting rolling of faceless dice. I skidded to a stop behind the next column, shoving shells into the 590. Through the wispy air, a figure swung out to fire. Buckshot ripped into flesh and stone alike, staggering my target. I fired again, and the man tumbled backwards, clawing at his tattered chest. "Add one."
For all the effort, I made a negligible opening in the incoming fire, perhaps five feet to my left. That was enough. Green sprinted into position, slapping me on the shoulder. I kicked out from cover and slid into the next disintegrating piece of concrete. I dimly noticed Ryman moving up, a barrage of rounds shaking his bulky shield. His advance ground to a stop under the sheer weight of fire that our very determined targets managed to pour. By now, the other teams had taken positions, and the situation was falling into a stalemate. Carlson's angry growl rose above the chattering fire. "****, I'm hit!" Karl flinched, as if resisting an urge to run into through the fire that would only add another casualty. He snatched up his radio, forcing himself to speak evenly. "We need a smoke screen, now."
I shouldered the shotgun. "Green! Marking targets for the thirty-seven!" Expecting to feel the scorching pain of a slug at any moment, I leaned out and fired deliberately, my shots spraying powder from the walls protecting our targets. "On it." Green shouldered his Sage SL-6, a revolver-type grenade launcher. He fired with cold regularity, and the 37mm rounds arched within feet of the marks my rounds had made. Four canisters spun on the floor, rapidly venting CS gas. Within seconds, the irritant grew into a massive cloud, and incoming fire was quickly stifled. "Move up! Move up!" Sawyer waved us forward, and twenty men advanced, uniformed monsters waving smoking weapons and with faces hidden by gas masks.
I wrenched a rifle from the hands of a struggling man, and pushed him to the ground. As I flex-cuffed his hands together, I realized that there were more technicians than guards. Out of seven bodies, only two wore the body armor and patches of Secronom's security teams. Sixteen researchers had held their ground against the Fairview SRT, with nothing to gain. Secronom, with it's wealth and government backing, had access to both federal troops and private security. They had no reason to waste valuable researches in combat.
"Good lord." I turned on my heel to face the speaker, and was left with a mental blank. Just feet away, grey floor changed to bright crimson and burgundy. A sea of bodies, littered with glittering casings, rotted, filling the room from wall to wall. A single furnace shed flickering light on shattered bones and dripping brains that could not be traced to individual bodies. I recognized the noise of uncontrollable vomiting, but that thought drowned under the mess of emotion struggling to process the scene before me. In some corner of my mind, I thought of the wretched irony of Ryman's earlier comparison to a death camp.
Pain spiked, but did not register in my fist as I sent a researcher sprawling. I stood over him, waiting for a response. The broken man stared back with victim's eyes, scarred by inescapable guilt and a total ignorance of the situation. The man started to sob, and my violent mix of emotion degraded to not a pity, but a totally numb indifference. I quietly stepped back towards the entrance, leaving the scene for the CSIs.
Total body count came out to around three hundred. They had to count skulls when complete bodies had been impossible to find. The countless already "disposed" of will probably never be known. Most never knew that any had died in the incident, only that the raid had been "successfull"; the only object of puiblic attention were Secronom's widely publicized prisoners. The one-hundred and nine people happily returned to normal lives, only to spread the scourge of the N-4 virus. They became victims, as much as fellow officers pulled out of service for "hallucinations," and "loss of motivation." The same people who would survive better then those still "fit for duty," and without the slightest hint of irony.
In a way, the suppression of truth was partially all of our faults. We sealed any moral products of the raid, more than the bribes or blackmail, more than Secronom. The corrupt high-ups who valued coin over duty. The test subjects and officers who resigned to being victimized rather then risk the unsavory realities. The families that discarded the "treasured" memories of their "loved ones" for some cleared loans.
When it finally came together, we all paid for our passive acceptance.
John_234 |
Latest page update: made by John_234
, Feb 14 2010, 1:28 AM EST
(about this update
About This Update
Edited by John_234
2063 words added 1 word deleted view changes - complete history) |
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More Info: links to this page
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| Started By | Thread Subject | Replies | Last Post | ||
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| John_234 | Mailing List (page: 1 2 3) | 41 | May 25 2010, 8:29 AM EDT by EricCogs | ||
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Thread started: Aug 29 2009, 3:24 PM EDT
Watch
To be honest, few actually read the threads where I post updates, and even fewer give feedback.
Would it be a better option simply to have a list of people that I message with each update? People would just post on this thread and I'd edit them into the OP. Users: Drewblet Freelancer47 Adician timberrattler Carnack 3DayAsylum Marsden EgAce Thorn_of_kabolis Dougrich IrishHitman John199312 Kam47 Dreadling lone_wolf1994 TheRedTieAssassin JPTank nate121 DerSchatten |
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| John_234 | Dead Frontier Fiction (page: 1 2 3 4) | 70 | Jan 31 2010, 3:44 PM EST by TheRedTieAssassin | ||
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Thread started: Jun 16 2009, 3:33 PM EDT
Watch
Would any of you be interested if I posted a Dead Frontier fiction?
I've been posting it on the game site itself, but for unknown reasons, I cannot access the thread where I posted it. I've had to ask a friend to post it for me, and I decided to post on here as well. It is basically a first person account of a Fairview Police officer from the initial outbreak onward. |
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| John_234 | Need Characters (page: 1 2 3 4 5 ... last page) | 129 | Oct 3 2009, 7:47 PM EDT by Troy_Redgrave | ||
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Thread started: Jul 8 2009, 10:22 PM EDT
Watch
So far this has been fairly character devoid. Any type of story needs characters, so I'd like to get a few from you guys.
So toss in a few characters and a brief description. -Name -Physical Description / Gear -Personality -Character Flaws -Proficiencies -Notes Any special conditions, what you'd like me to avoid writing them into. etc. I shouldn't really have to say this, but keep it realistic. If you include callsigns, make sure they have a real name as well. Weapons shouldn't be uncommon without good reason, and they shouldn't be perfect at everything. Thanks in advance for any input. |
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Showing 3 of 3 threads for this page
