Grand Imperial Republic of Aldarminia
Loshmoyzagrad City Governance Zone, Edrohrathi State
Mountaineers' District
Camp Ubnahrakov
Oxver Joklayson was an ordinary small town police officer from the subdivision of Sdavalahall. The small town was set in the middle of Trostetchnya Pass. The Pass led into the Aldaric Mountains to the abandoned Camp Ubnahrakov. The lonely camp used to be a military outpost that the former Yeznovich Superior Army utilized as a supply depot and was rumored to also be where they performed cruel experiments and torture sessions on political dissidents and members of the Azcheyko Uprising. Then, the Uprising ended and the rebel victors burned most of the camp to ashes. Now it was gloomy and supposedly haunted place that few wished to visit. Oxver, though, was forced to patrol the area to make sure teenagers weren't trespassing on the land. Some would dare each other to visit the Camp, and most would end up hurting themselves on a piece of debris.
Despite two years of patrolling the horrid site, Oxver was still nervous in his armored all-terrain pick-up truck. Today, his partner and soon-to-be replacement, Myockziimus Dhrivayenos had called in sick, so a rookie Vavarnkaer Weyslic was on the job. Oxver didn't like working with rookies. He preferred his partner of five years mainly because they knew each other's tendencies. He would have to deal with it. Besides, this was his last patrol of Camp Ubnahrakov. Then he and his family were moving into an upper-middle class level highrise apartment in the city. Afterwards, Oxver would be training as a homocide detective. Oxver hoped that this last patrol would go without a hitch. His hopes would be crushed. Utterly.
When the two police officers arrived at the eastern entrance into the camp, they split up. Oxver reluctantly allowed Vavarnkaer to take the northern and rougher main road through the camp. Oxver took the straight-away and mostly flat, but debris-littered Trosteto-Ubnan Camp Road. Things immediately went off to a bad start. The rookie didn't radio Oxver after the ten minute mark. Apparently he had forgotten and also hit a dark patch in the camp. Then, he didn't reach the camp center on time. To top it all off, Oxver and Vavarnkaer got into a heated argument on who should be the one to patrol the western and treacherous outskirts of Camp Ubnahrakov. Oxver eventually won, but when he left Vavarnkaer was obviously going to be somewhat distracted by anger when he staked out the camp center.
Oxver finished his patrol in record time. When he was only a couple of minutes away from reaching the camp center, he radioed Vavarnkaer. No reply came. He tried four more times to get an answer. He was unsuccessful. Angry, but also worried, he rushed to the camp center. Approaching slowly, Oxver saw the shocking scene. Vavarnkaer's truck was bullet-ridden, its windows were shattered, and its tires were torn, most likely by more bullets. There was clearly blood on the side of the car and inside as well. More blood formed a streak leading to the rookie's motionless body a few yards from the driver's side of the truck. The driver's side door also hand loosely off to the side. The body was soaked in more blood than he had originally thought. There were signs of broken bones and early signs of severe bruising. The neck was also twisted in an unusual way. Vavarnkaer didn’t die from being shot or even blood loss. He was beaten and his neck was wrung. Oxver called for back-up and parked twenty yards from the scene. He immediately began to cautiously investigate. His Glock pistol was at the ready. From the elevation of the bullet holes on the truck, the damage, and the area around Vavarnkaer's body, Oxver had a general idea of what happened. There were at least two shooters, both armed with heavy, fully-automatic weapons. The shooters had to be in either the second floor of the camp's post office to the truck's right or in the third floor of the camp's old hospital on the truck's left.
Oxver was struck with the feeling of dread. The whole area seemed to have a depressing black and white tint. A chilling wind blew and lifted almost all of the ashes and dust into the air. It was like a cloak of darkness that blinded Oxver’s view of both culprit buildings. He looked left, right, and behind. He was suddenly paranoid. A bit of dust flew into his right eye. He tried to wipe it out but to no avail. Oxver was almost half blind. The dust and ash finally settled. All around him, Oxver noticed, was very still. Too still. Then there was a creak. A loud and frightening creak.
Oxver spun around to face the now opened doorway of the hospital. The door was slowly swinging back and forth on the hinges, still creaking as if signalliing all the horrors of the camp to rally to the camp's center. Every time the door tried to swing back to the door frame, it was stopped and swung back as it hit the most terrifying figure Oxver had ever seen. The figure was massive, even for the average Aldarminian. He, no it Oxver thought, was clad in chrome black, thick, and padded armor. It had to be some kind of really heavy riot control armor. Possibly from the old days of the Totalitarian State. The "it" wore a large, complex, chrome black gas "helmet". It covered the entire head as if it were a dome. Two glass, and probably tightly sealed, lens were the eyeholes for the figure. The figure was too far away and the lens were covered in too much ash and dust and Oxver was still too blinded to see what was inside. Oxver thought there was probably just a shadow or pure darkness. The figure cradled an LMG in both hands. There was a pistol that was copmpletely concealed except for the end of the grip into a sort of built-in holster on the armor. Oxver thought he could hear the figure clearly breathing heavily. But then again, that could just be him. Or was it the internal conflict occurring between his fears and adrenaline. He could only hope that his adrenaline would eventually win. What much left did he have to hope for, though? For a moment, Oxver thought that maybe the figure was just his imagination. That optimistic thought was washed away when the dust finally left his eye and he finally had a truly clear picture.
That's when it really struck Oxver. The full force of the aura of fear and hopelessness that swirled violently around the figure wrapped around Oxver and constricted him. It now tore at the last wall of defense against utter fear that Oxver had standing. His heart almost stopped. But there was something more. There was the sense that the figure itself and everything around it was dead. Just dead. Either dead or completely nonexistent. The air reeked of decay in Oxver's nose. Death now seemed to arrive with another cold gust of the wind. It was as if the grim Reaper hovered in the small cloud of ash and dust that acted as the only barrier between the figure and Oxver. Oxver only just realized that it had only been a few seconds that the two of them had been staring at each other. Oxver then realized just how nonexistent the figure seemingly was. The figure was like a ghost, and Oxver's instincts had failed him. Was it really his fault? The figure could have been standing in front of him for the whole time, and he still wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the blood. The blood. The slowly drying and red blood. Vavarnkaer's blood. It covered the firgure's fists, helmet, and it was splattered all over his body armor. It was now exceedingly apparent that the figure was Vavarnkaer's killer.
Oxver was now enraged. His adrenaline fueled it and gave him strength and courage. He no longer thought of Vavarnkaer as an annoying and griping rookie but rather as an energetic and enthusiastic new recruit who could've had a great future and a wonderful life ahead of him if it wasn't for Oxver making him stay in the camp center like a sitting duck. Now all Oxver wanted to do was kill the figure and wipe its deathly nonexistence off the face of the Earth. He wanted to make sure that the figure was dead and nonexistent. Seeming like it was wasn't enough. Oxver unholstered his Glock and aimed it at the figure's helmet. With an inhuman speed that shocked Oxver beyond imagination, the figure unholstered his pistol and discharged four rounds into Oxver. One hit his lower solar plexus. The other three hit him in his stomach. The apin almost obliterated his courage, but rage and adrenaline pushed him beyond his limits. He discharged his entire Glock's clip at the figure.
All Oxver heard was the despondent, soul-crushing sound of splintering wood. He missed! By God! He missed! Had God forsaken Oxver! Did His Merciful All-Mighty really allow this demonic beast, this abomination, this dark and soulless entity to survive!? It had to be Satan himself at work in the malelovent situation. With the swiftness of a wild, blood-thirsty, predator, the figure dropped his weapons and ran up to Oxver. The figure then proceeded to pound Oxver's stomach, chest, and head with an endless flurry of destructive blows of the fists and scyth-like kicks. Oxver couldn't recover from the disorientation or even fight back. With every hit, everything went red for him and he felt like he staggered backwards for a few yards. Every time he was about to fall, the figure would grab him by his shoulders, stand him upright, and then knee him. Finally, Oxver felt that he was up against a wooden wall. His blood-shot eyes could barely see the wooden post office sign swing back and forth above him. Then he looked in front him. The figure was walking towards him. A fear that was diluted and numbed with pain flushed through his body and mind. The figure grabbed him by his shirt and threw Oxver through a broken window into the old post offce. Oxver landed face first on the dusty, cracked wooden floor. Oxver tried to get up. He would never succeed.
A shot rang out. The figure had acquired Oxver's Glock off of the ground. He had somehow grabbed a clip off of Oxver when he was being beaten. Oxver could feel every single thing the bullet did inside his body in those few milliseconds that to him felt like hours. He could feel the bullet's tip press up against his flesh and tear through it. Then he felt the bullet split and destroy his spinal cord and the nerves inside. Next came the feeling of the bullet breaking through the gap of two vertebrate, shattering the ends of both. The small splinters cut into internal organs. That sharp pain was followed by the feeling of internal bleeding an the leaking of digestive acids from Oxver's punctured stomach. The pain was immense, but it was suddenly numbed. It almost completely dissipated. With his spinal cord damaged, oxver was paralyzed. That's when it happened. The mental and emotional breakdown. Now the worst thought to ever cross Oxver's mind persisted. The thought was the definite fact that Oxver would die. There was no question now. He was going to die. He would never see his family again. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks. The figure now stood over him and turned Oxver over face up. Suddenly, there was the sound of boots, vehicles, and a helicopter. The boots were inside the post office and around Oxver. They did not even stop to acknowledge the figure or Oxver.
Oxver looked out of the window to see a helicopter with the golden star of the Loshmoyzagrad Police Department emblazenoned on its side. Back-up had arrived, but it was already too late. Whatever salvation that the back-up was planning to bring was futile. Oxver watched bitterly as the helicopter seemed to slowly approach the post office. then he noticed a thin streak of smoke speed towards the aircraft. One pf the men in the post office got in front of the window and blocked Oxver's view. The sound of an explosion confirmed the inevitable. The helicopter was destroyed and everyone that was inside was dead. There were several more explosions as whatever vehicles that the back-up had brought we also blown to smithereens by RPGs and AT4s. There were bursts of gunfire for a few minutes. Everything became suddenly quiet. There was a moan. A sniper bullet quieted the dieing ambulance technician that had made the sound.
The figure, still standing over Oxver, took off his helmet, threw it to the floor, and crouch low besides Oxver. Oxver saw, at first, his partner of five years, Myockziimus Dhrivayenos. Then he saw that Myokziimus Dhrivayenos was just a disguise. Myockziimus had never really existed. The true identity of Oxver's former partner was the most feared man in Aldarminian history. Ex-Aldarminian Central Government Intelligence Agency spy, torturer, and terrorist. The true face was revealed. It horrified and defied all of Oxver's reasoning and logic. There he was. Bane. The pale blue, almost whitish gray, eyes. the pale, cold-hearted face. The shaggy, jet black hair. The small indention and scars on his head where a bullet had hit him seventeen years ago and where shrapnel had always luckily just barely penetrated skin. Then, there was the infamous scar. It started on the top left corner of his forehead, crossed over his left eye, cutting on to the bridge of the nose, down his right cheek, over his jaw, then finally end under his chin.
Bane pressed the Glock's barrel against Oxver's forehead. Oxver had a look of disgust and anger on his face. He had been lied to and betrayed for for five years by this man. Oxver didn't consider this to be a man. To him, Bane was a cowardly animal. A piece of trash. Worthless scum. Oxver was about to spit in Bane's face. Bane fired first. He didn't even flinch when Oxver's blood showered his face. Without any emotion, Bane stood up and kicked Oxver for good measure. He wiped some of the blood off of his face and put his helmet back on. He didn't bother with the body. Oxver Joklayson was just another one of the countless other victims. He was just another ghost of Camp Ubnahrakov who would not rest in peace. Not until there was a just punishment dealt to those who had caused it harm and plagued it with evil. These ghosts would start to stir now. They have waited for too long for their greatest desire. Retribution.
Despite two years of patrolling the horrid site, Oxver was still nervous in his armored all-terrain pick-up truck. Today, his partner and soon-to-be replacement, Myockziimus Dhrivayenos had called in sick, so a rookie Vavarnkaer Weyslic was on the job. Oxver didn't like working with rookies. He preferred his partner of five years mainly because they knew each other's tendencies. He would have to deal with it. Besides, this was his last patrol of Camp Ubnahrakov. Then he and his family were moving into an upper-middle class level highrise apartment in the city. Afterwards, Oxver would be training as a homocide detective. Oxver hoped that this last patrol would go without a hitch. His hopes would be crushed. Utterly.
When the two police officers arrived at the eastern entrance into the camp, they split up. Oxver reluctantly allowed Vavarnkaer to take the northern and rougher main road through the camp. Oxver took the straight-away and mostly flat, but debris-littered Trosteto-Ubnan Camp Road. Things immediately went off to a bad start. The rookie didn't radio Oxver after the ten minute mark. Apparently he had forgotten and also hit a dark patch in the camp. Then, he didn't reach the camp center on time. To top it all off, Oxver and Vavarnkaer got into a heated argument on who should be the one to patrol the western and treacherous outskirts of Camp Ubnahrakov. Oxver eventually won, but when he left Vavarnkaer was obviously going to be somewhat distracted by anger when he staked out the camp center.
Oxver finished his patrol in record time. When he was only a couple of minutes away from reaching the camp center, he radioed Vavarnkaer. No reply came. He tried four more times to get an answer. He was unsuccessful. Angry, but also worried, he rushed to the camp center. Approaching slowly, Oxver saw the shocking scene. Vavarnkaer's truck was bullet-ridden, its windows were shattered, and its tires were torn, most likely by more bullets. There was clearly blood on the side of the car and inside as well. More blood formed a streak leading to the rookie's motionless body a few yards from the driver's side of the truck. The driver's side door also hand loosely off to the side. The body was soaked in more blood than he had originally thought. There were signs of broken bones and early signs of severe bruising. The neck was also twisted in an unusual way. Vavarnkaer didn’t die from being shot or even blood loss. He was beaten and his neck was wrung. Oxver called for back-up and parked twenty yards from the scene. He immediately began to cautiously investigate. His Glock pistol was at the ready. From the elevation of the bullet holes on the truck, the damage, and the area around Vavarnkaer's body, Oxver had a general idea of what happened. There were at least two shooters, both armed with heavy, fully-automatic weapons. The shooters had to be in either the second floor of the camp's post office to the truck's right or in the third floor of the camp's old hospital on the truck's left.
Oxver was struck with the feeling of dread. The whole area seemed to have a depressing black and white tint. A chilling wind blew and lifted almost all of the ashes and dust into the air. It was like a cloak of darkness that blinded Oxver’s view of both culprit buildings. He looked left, right, and behind. He was suddenly paranoid. A bit of dust flew into his right eye. He tried to wipe it out but to no avail. Oxver was almost half blind. The dust and ash finally settled. All around him, Oxver noticed, was very still. Too still. Then there was a creak. A loud and frightening creak.
Oxver spun around to face the now opened doorway of the hospital. The door was slowly swinging back and forth on the hinges, still creaking as if signalliing all the horrors of the camp to rally to the camp's center. Every time the door tried to swing back to the door frame, it was stopped and swung back as it hit the most terrifying figure Oxver had ever seen. The figure was massive, even for the average Aldarminian. He, no it Oxver thought, was clad in chrome black, thick, and padded armor. It had to be some kind of really heavy riot control armor. Possibly from the old days of the Totalitarian State. The "it" wore a large, complex, chrome black gas "helmet". It covered the entire head as if it were a dome. Two glass, and probably tightly sealed, lens were the eyeholes for the figure. The figure was too far away and the lens were covered in too much ash and dust and Oxver was still too blinded to see what was inside. Oxver thought there was probably just a shadow or pure darkness. The figure cradled an LMG in both hands. There was a pistol that was copmpletely concealed except for the end of the grip into a sort of built-in holster on the armor. Oxver thought he could hear the figure clearly breathing heavily. But then again, that could just be him. Or was it the internal conflict occurring between his fears and adrenaline. He could only hope that his adrenaline would eventually win. What much left did he have to hope for, though? For a moment, Oxver thought that maybe the figure was just his imagination. That optimistic thought was washed away when the dust finally left his eye and he finally had a truly clear picture.
That's when it really struck Oxver. The full force of the aura of fear and hopelessness that swirled violently around the figure wrapped around Oxver and constricted him. It now tore at the last wall of defense against utter fear that Oxver had standing. His heart almost stopped. But there was something more. There was the sense that the figure itself and everything around it was dead. Just dead. Either dead or completely nonexistent. The air reeked of decay in Oxver's nose. Death now seemed to arrive with another cold gust of the wind. It was as if the grim Reaper hovered in the small cloud of ash and dust that acted as the only barrier between the figure and Oxver. Oxver only just realized that it had only been a few seconds that the two of them had been staring at each other. Oxver then realized just how nonexistent the figure seemingly was. The figure was like a ghost, and Oxver's instincts had failed him. Was it really his fault? The figure could have been standing in front of him for the whole time, and he still wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the blood. The blood. The slowly drying and red blood. Vavarnkaer's blood. It covered the firgure's fists, helmet, and it was splattered all over his body armor. It was now exceedingly apparent that the figure was Vavarnkaer's killer.
Oxver was now enraged. His adrenaline fueled it and gave him strength and courage. He no longer thought of Vavarnkaer as an annoying and griping rookie but rather as an energetic and enthusiastic new recruit who could've had a great future and a wonderful life ahead of him if it wasn't for Oxver making him stay in the camp center like a sitting duck. Now all Oxver wanted to do was kill the figure and wipe its deathly nonexistence off the face of the Earth. He wanted to make sure that the figure was dead and nonexistent. Seeming like it was wasn't enough. Oxver unholstered his Glock and aimed it at the figure's helmet. With an inhuman speed that shocked Oxver beyond imagination, the figure unholstered his pistol and discharged four rounds into Oxver. One hit his lower solar plexus. The other three hit him in his stomach. The apin almost obliterated his courage, but rage and adrenaline pushed him beyond his limits. He discharged his entire Glock's clip at the figure.
All Oxver heard was the despondent, soul-crushing sound of splintering wood. He missed! By God! He missed! Had God forsaken Oxver! Did His Merciful All-Mighty really allow this demonic beast, this abomination, this dark and soulless entity to survive!? It had to be Satan himself at work in the malelovent situation. With the swiftness of a wild, blood-thirsty, predator, the figure dropped his weapons and ran up to Oxver. The figure then proceeded to pound Oxver's stomach, chest, and head with an endless flurry of destructive blows of the fists and scyth-like kicks. Oxver couldn't recover from the disorientation or even fight back. With every hit, everything went red for him and he felt like he staggered backwards for a few yards. Every time he was about to fall, the figure would grab him by his shoulders, stand him upright, and then knee him. Finally, Oxver felt that he was up against a wooden wall. His blood-shot eyes could barely see the wooden post office sign swing back and forth above him. Then he looked in front him. The figure was walking towards him. A fear that was diluted and numbed with pain flushed through his body and mind. The figure grabbed him by his shirt and threw Oxver through a broken window into the old post offce. Oxver landed face first on the dusty, cracked wooden floor. Oxver tried to get up. He would never succeed.
A shot rang out. The figure had acquired Oxver's Glock off of the ground. He had somehow grabbed a clip off of Oxver when he was being beaten. Oxver could feel every single thing the bullet did inside his body in those few milliseconds that to him felt like hours. He could feel the bullet's tip press up against his flesh and tear through it. Then he felt the bullet split and destroy his spinal cord and the nerves inside. Next came the feeling of the bullet breaking through the gap of two vertebrate, shattering the ends of both. The small splinters cut into internal organs. That sharp pain was followed by the feeling of internal bleeding an the leaking of digestive acids from Oxver's punctured stomach. The pain was immense, but it was suddenly numbed. It almost completely dissipated. With his spinal cord damaged, oxver was paralyzed. That's when it happened. The mental and emotional breakdown. Now the worst thought to ever cross Oxver's mind persisted. The thought was the definite fact that Oxver would die. There was no question now. He was going to die. He would never see his family again. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks. The figure now stood over him and turned Oxver over face up. Suddenly, there was the sound of boots, vehicles, and a helicopter. The boots were inside the post office and around Oxver. They did not even stop to acknowledge the figure or Oxver.
Oxver looked out of the window to see a helicopter with the golden star of the Loshmoyzagrad Police Department emblazenoned on its side. Back-up had arrived, but it was already too late. Whatever salvation that the back-up was planning to bring was futile. Oxver watched bitterly as the helicopter seemed to slowly approach the post office. then he noticed a thin streak of smoke speed towards the aircraft. One pf the men in the post office got in front of the window and blocked Oxver's view. The sound of an explosion confirmed the inevitable. The helicopter was destroyed and everyone that was inside was dead. There were several more explosions as whatever vehicles that the back-up had brought we also blown to smithereens by RPGs and AT4s. There were bursts of gunfire for a few minutes. Everything became suddenly quiet. There was a moan. A sniper bullet quieted the dieing ambulance technician that had made the sound.
The figure, still standing over Oxver, took off his helmet, threw it to the floor, and crouch low besides Oxver. Oxver saw, at first, his partner of five years, Myockziimus Dhrivayenos. Then he saw that Myokziimus Dhrivayenos was just a disguise. Myockziimus had never really existed. The true identity of Oxver's former partner was the most feared man in Aldarminian history. Ex-Aldarminian Central Government Intelligence Agency spy, torturer, and terrorist. The true face was revealed. It horrified and defied all of Oxver's reasoning and logic. There he was. Bane. The pale blue, almost whitish gray, eyes. the pale, cold-hearted face. The shaggy, jet black hair. The small indention and scars on his head where a bullet had hit him seventeen years ago and where shrapnel had always luckily just barely penetrated skin. Then, there was the infamous scar. It started on the top left corner of his forehead, crossed over his left eye, cutting on to the bridge of the nose, down his right cheek, over his jaw, then finally end under his chin.
Bane pressed the Glock's barrel against Oxver's forehead. Oxver had a look of disgust and anger on his face. He had been lied to and betrayed for for five years by this man. Oxver didn't consider this to be a man. To him, Bane was a cowardly animal. A piece of trash. Worthless scum. Oxver was about to spit in Bane's face. Bane fired first. He didn't even flinch when Oxver's blood showered his face. Without any emotion, Bane stood up and kicked Oxver for good measure. He wiped some of the blood off of his face and put his helmet back on. He didn't bother with the body. Oxver Joklayson was just another one of the countless other victims. He was just another ghost of Camp Ubnahrakov who would not rest in peace. Not until there was a just punishment dealt to those who had caused it harm and plagued it with evil. These ghosts would start to stir now. They have waited for too long for their greatest desire. Retribution.
