Somnambulism: Hail to the New Flesh
[ MATURE ]
The Regrettable Rose — Conspiracy in Faith
"You've escaped through these means; these delirious dreams helped
to shelter and soothe your soul. The regrettable roles, the salvation they
sold satisfied your desire to burn... And now you've learned?
Oh no, please don't... Wave goodbye; wave goodbye!"
”Lullaby” by the Tea Party
• • • • • • ‡ • • • • • •
”It was a dream... It was a dream we all shared. A dream so strong, so devout, that blindness of faith, blindness of determination, obscured the truth. A dream... All just a dream; a hopeless dream, nothing more than a fragment of a hope. We knew it was doomed from the start, but don't all dreamers? Don't all the poor fools, the bastards of creativity, the romantics and heartfelt lovers, don't they all imagine something better? Something greater? Something so remote, so lost, so deep within the abyss of monotony, of perdition, that they can see nothing else? Do they not all feel that, in the end, the blind and numb treading of the ever-growing despair, the anguish, the misery and sorrow that surrounds them will, inevitably, consume them? Devour them?
“I know that feeling... That feeling of total desperation; that deep, growing, burning despair that swells and grinds, digging frozen, jagged swathes into your heart – never ceasing, never pausing, only yearning more and more with each sequential blow, hoping in it's own, malevolent way, to finally break the seat of your soul.
“Yes, I know that feeling all too well...
“Marmora was beautiful; she was the most beautiful woman I ever knew – and ever hoped to know. I suppose it is a bit naïve to assume that, in this day, in this time, after all we've been through, that love – true, total, unconditional love – at first sight can truly happen; but it does. In the deepest recesses of my heart, I know it does; to the end, I will never waver in that one, inalienable belief. True love happens, and it happens often.
“I found my true love during my years in the State University – back when the land was beautiful and the roses still bloomed, back when twilight was gorgeous and sublime, not the hideous miscarriage of nature that it has become. I found her... I found her by accident, really; perhaps that's the way all truly wonderful things come to pass: not by determined, conscious thought, but through the insane, quizzical trickery the cosmos ever-so enjoys to enact. She was barely a woman then; barely beyond the often-forgotten adolescent years. In truth, all of us were so; all of us were still filled with the egregious hopes and desires of childhood only just beginning to fade with the anxiety of adulthood.
“Back then, when I was still young and didn't face the crimes, the heinous mistakes, that I do now, she was such a sight to behold. She – Marmora – was one of the few Kiris blessed with the halo of auburn-brunette that so many now try to replicate. That, in truth, was what first drew me toward her. It was only later that I became infatuated with her every action, her every quality, her every 'imperfection.' It was her elegance though, I believe, that I fell in love with... The way she moved, the way she spoke... I suppose it's funny now, but I fell into amorous obsession even with the peculiar way her nose seemed to reach a faintly upward-pointing peak.
“Needless to say, I was a love-struck mathematician that was only beginning to taste of the chalice of cynicism and misanthropy; yet, even then, I doubted my chances... Fate, it seems, however, had other plans...
“Our eloping was held in secret, of course, not because of some misbegotten sense of protection her parents felt, nor for any bourgoeis sense of nobility that mine held; such a thing was simply the fashion of the time, a fabrication created by the air of romanticism and idealism that was all around us. Of course, that is not to say that our respective wellsprings were particularly pleased with the act – though their disapproval was mostly in regards to the interruption of our academic careers, not due to our love or desires. Even so, for the seventeen days we spent together, locked deep away in some forgotten cabin in the Northern Mountains, doing little more than worshiping, devoting ourselves to one another, entwining eternally in love and lust, only separating when nature and necessity forced us to, I was the happiest, most loving and exultant I had ever been. It was like the heavens had prepared the time and set it aside specifically for us...
“Yet, the joy that followed our eloping was destined to be the climax of our romantic relationship...
“In the years that followed, between our separate careers and the devotions of time, effort, and focus that they demanded, we drifted – as many lovers do. Our time together slowly dwindled, draining through the shallow neck of responsibility like the sands of an hourglass. What began as obsession, as ecstatic passion, slowly began to fade into frustration and contempt.
“For years, we tried to conceive. For all those years, as our mounting sorrow and melancholy grew, the frustration of my position and profession only fed the flames of contempt. Though in our passionate fights and through every moment of strife I blamed her for each failure, for each miscarriage, I always knew it was due to my own... inadequacies. Perhaps the near-sterility I faced was a warning; if it was, in the end, I did not heed it, and soon after the forty-fourth year of my beloved, perhaps the mechanisms that Providence had erected to prevent our coupling finally broke, for what we were given was the most beautiful, most gorgeous form of a son.
“He... Our... Our son revitalized our love for one another; it was through his birth and consequential life that the kindling of our romance once more became a great inferno of passion and devotion. Whether it was his bouts of colic in the night, where decisions for care were made over necking and playful admiration, or every scrape, bump, and bruise he ever received being cared-for and swooned-over by her or I. It didn't matter; he re-connected our souls. He returned us to the way things were always meant to be. He was our rose...
“Though, it seemed, that we were the only souls fortunate enough to feel happiness at the time. Conflict with the West was growing, and the bellicose, hawkish political meandering of the Legionnaires' Congress was reaching a head. It seemed that it was only a matter of time before the levee broke and the hitherto pent and held flood of hatred, of war, of death, would come rushing. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't see it; I don't know why anyone else didn't realize what we were headed toward. It was as if, like us, they were blinded by their own, personal dreams. Back then, I think we all were. Blinded... Blinded by the very fate that stood before us; blinded by our dream that we could escape it.
“It was in the tenth year of my son – the fifty-fourth of Marmora's – that the disaster, the apocalypse, known as the Reckoning occurred. It... It's a time I still find hard to talk about...
“With their loss, I think that despair, that suffering that they held back finally fell, finally consumed and encapsulated me in its painful, suffering touch. I think it was in the year following... the event that my desire finally became elevated to the status of dream, of hope. Of course, for years, interest in the Ways had been an idle fascination of mine; an idle taboo that I indulged simply because of its very status as an ostracized tangent of research and thought. With their passing, however, this... enchantment grew to become an ardent, heart-felt, mind-consuming passion – a compulsion.
“In the Ways I found hope that, somewhere, whether within the fertile-turned-rotting earth beneath my feet, or within the veins, within the heart of every newborn, of every beautiful woman or handsome man, that they persisted; I found hope that somewhere, somewhere deep within my own heart, they still lived, they still played, they still laughed and grew, watching, waiting for the day I would join them. Yet, hope soon turns to fixation, and from fixation to conspiracy, and from conspiracy to crime if left unattended, allowed to grow, to harden, to fester like an open wound in the mind of a desperate man – a man such as myself.
“I believe that is why I did what I did; that is why I committed any act that would further our... dream that I could. Why I trespassed upon every glory, every accomplishment, every sacred more that the civilized world had created; why I crossed every line and dove toward and surrounded myself with every taboo that I hoped could return them to me, could return this land – this land of beauty, of fertility, of hope – to what it once was... To return the land to them, to the way they remembered it, to the way I hoped to remember them...
“For what I have done, and for the consequences that it will now, irrevocably, cause: I am sorry.
“To the people I hoped to offer salvation, to my native comrades, to the nation I once loved: I am sorry. To the people of the world, the unknowing, ignorant world that, in time, will not remember me for the wonders I created nor the services I preformed, but for the sinister, maleficent crimes I perpetrated, and for the no-doubt heinous and abominable consequences that they will foster: I am sorry. I am sorry for what I have done, for what I devoted the remainder of my waking days toward; I am sorry for all that my work will bring, for all the misery and torment that my actions will create. I am sorry...
“But most of all, I am sorry, Marmora; I am sorry, my son. I am sorry for the sacrilege I performed and the blasphemous, unmentionable acts I performed through the fool's hope that I could return you to me. I am sorry for the bastardization of our dream, and for the bastardization of your hopes. I am sorry I could not do more for you; I am sorry I could not save you.
“I love you, and I will be with you soon...”
— The Final Testament of Kresimir Czranoboj,
Founder of the Marmora Institute ( Audio Format )
Founder of the Marmora Institute ( Audio Format )
• • • • • • ‡ • • • • • •
Rubicon International Production Facility
Svescize, Uzebedinjtsi, Kyrusia
May 9, 10 A.R.; 10:08 A.M. Local Time
[ T-22:56:05 ]
The gentle whistle of the vacuum-form compressors was a symphony of science and steel. Cycling helices of polished aluminum and sterile, ivory knobs and cases, were not the canvas, but the art crafted upon the easel. Tinctures of bio-chemical compounds, blues and greens and reds, all swirling, spinning, whirling in concentric eddies of centrifugal force. Automated arms given such colorful designations as “Alice” and “Gregori” spun, their hydraulic and pneumatic pistons firing, forcing each arm to rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the tide of individual, prepackaged treatments, toxins, and opiates. An endless line of small, electric conveyers coupled to steel and titanium drive-chains tugged along, drawing small glass and heated-plastic vials to the yawning maw of filling stations and compound mixers.
A gaping building was the stage for such an automated play; a musical filled with only the sounds of automated labor and the gentle “beep” and “boops” of the lone observation terminals that monitored the output of the production facility's lines. A ghastly edifice standing in staunch resever, supporting the post-modernism that had enveloped every facet of the Fortified State from the moment the stars stopped falling; a bastardization of what the culture of the land once was. A cancerous lesion, a pustule composed solely of the desires for efficiency and cost-effectiveness, not the hopes and desires of the people that crafted it. It was a monotonous microcosm that served only two purposes: to display the very degree at which science had oppressed the human spirit, and to serve as the ground zero for what would become a rebirth of the world.
It was to this fate of post-modernist, sterile monotony and tireless, ceaseless machine-labor that Stamiri Lutizby was condemned to endure. A small, rectangular tag that indicated his position as little more than “middle management” within the Rubicon Cooperation Initiative hung from the lapel of his bleached, pristine, inclusive aseptic suit. Such was the destiny of the young, once-promising bio-chemist turned factory manager. In another time, in another place, surely society would never have permitted such a hideous misappropriation and talent and expertise, but even with the booming population growth within the land of ash and soot, production personnel were more needed (and desirable) than the so-called “medical psuedo-intellectuals” and “white-coats.” Even in the collapse of the entirety of society, the proletarian mistrust of such bourgeois professions as “chemist” and “medical doctor” had remained.
Stamiri leaned down, resting his elbows upon the small, polished aluminum desk (truly little more than a pedestal with a tall, high-backed chair), staring blankly into the thin, nearly-translucent glass-plate computer monitor before him, watching with little enthusiasm as the telemetry for various components of the production line were fed-back to his terminal. Such was life and liberty in the land of the National Revolution: an endless string of one boredom to the next flavor. Even as Stamiri sat, fiddling idly with the faintest of mustache that had grown beneath his nose, watching as the small graphs increased and shrank, the dull, azure glow of the monitor bathing his rounded, infantile face, his thoughts wandered, desperately seeking any safe port from the mind-numbing drone of life within the ever-neglected arm of the Marmora Institute.
The young bio-chemist watched – or, more precisely, blindly gazed – the screen, his mind tumbling into the deepest chasms of a daydream that only the young are capable: lustful squandering of time. Thoughts directed not in companionship, but for the chance to bed, to entwine, with one of the young interns from the Chemical Production Division; perhaps with Mirie, the young, vibrant, green-eyed vixen that always seemed to break the official dress code by wearing “V”-necked sweaters that just seemed to give a single thought of invitation. Then again, perhaps Sasja's small, urbane frame, her eyes reflected faintly beneath the rimless glasses she always wore, the same glasses that seemed ever-determined to ride low and fall from her nose, her pale, alabaster skin an attraction in-and-of itself.
Stamiri was only faintly aware of the obnoxious “bee-beep” that had begun to resonate from the terminal before him. He was too entranced with the notion of sliding himself between the velveteen thighs of Sasja, tasting of her warmth in some random, unknown storage closet, or within one of the expansive, ever-empty server rooms that connected the Svescize facility to the overall Institute network. The numb, dazed bio-chemist only began to retreat from his less-than-gentlemanly thoughts as the “bee-boop” hastily became a near-shrieking “bee-bee-boo-beep,” shaking his head violently as to clear his thought and, perhaps, quell the growing anxiety and thrill that had begun to swell within his abdomen.
“The hell...?” the middle-management bio-chemist questioned, blinking several times to remove the dreamer's daze from his eyes (and to reposition the slipping, formed contact lenses that corrected his exceedingly poor eyesight). Upon the thin, glowing monitor, amidst the various graphs, charts, numerical matrices, and small boxes of direct closed-circuit monitoring of the line, a small, rounded icon was blinking, glowing, and “booping” in the center of the tangle of telemetric readouts and production values. Within the white disc, it's periphery blinking in tune to the annoying drone of its own “beeping,” the stylized “'M''I'” of the Marmora Institute logo remained stony and unwavering.
Stamiri Lutizby didn't know what the icon withheld; all that he knew was that it indicated a message from the upper-echelon of the R.C.I., and, thus, the elite personnel amongst the Marmora Institute.Only once had he received such an icon – only once; two years ago a similar message had been sent calling for the total halt of all production of the life-saving Xyclecin treatments – the same treatments that insured every Kyrusian man, woman, and child didn't become little more than cooked meat, fried and desiccated by the severe radiological fallout that still flourished across the Kyrus homeland. The message hadn't included a reason, though Stamiri had his own guesses and theories as to the matter, but simply called for the total halt of all production immediately.
When his hand rose, however, Stamiri's finger absently crossed the icon of the plate monitor, what he beheld was something far different, something far more consequential than even the halting of production:
INTERNAL ORDER MEMORANDUM
RECIPIENT(S): Selected R.I. Treatment Production Centers D96-H03
ENCRYPTION: Marmora Photonic Encryption Standard
PRIORITY: URGENT
BODY: Immediately initiate “Novicija” injection protocols.
All management and executive authorities within the Rubicon International production facilities within the ranges of D96 to H03 of the Marmora Institute are mandated by the Rubicon Cooperation Initiative to comply or face immediate employment termination, legal suit, and may face prosecution due to violation of contractual employment agreements.
New treatment ratio compounds must be available for distribution in twenty-four hours or less. Inefficient production facilities that do not meet this quota will be noted for investigation and possible staff and capital appropriation reductions.
« Authentication Protocol: 1109-D50C-22-F0392-0038-66X »
Boredom, it seemed, had come to an end. Stamiri sat, his eyes slowly widened as he read each line, his pupils becoming dilated in order to focus on each syllable of every word. As he finished, he quickly re-read the memorandum, assuring himself that what he was reading was true. He scanned the Authentication Protocol code, insuring that the message was official and not some co-worker's idea of a joke; his hope was dashed as the appropriate memorandum filing code and subsequent filing sheet filled with authentication procedures and all the appropriate signatures and identification measures filled his screen.Across Kyrusia, in Rubicon International production facilities, the message was relayed to men of similar position (and state of boredom) as Stamiri Lutizby, undoubtedly, few if any grasped the implication of the order that had been relayed. Stamiri, however, ever-bored and lost for intrigue and curiosity, at least nominally, had grasped what such a simple order, such a simple objective, meant. During the long, waxing hours of his numerous shifts, he'd managed to garner a sample of the so-called “Novicija” compound when the small, black, circular discs had arrived, filled with a semi-gelatinous, pink compound, flecked with lattices and patterns of some ebony composite.
They – the production staff – had been ordered to “concoct” new treatment compounds from the small, pink discs, and had been told merely to place them in cold storage until such a time when they were required to enter production and distribution. That, however, had been nearly ten months ago; ten months where a seemingly unknown compound had sat in cold storage. Yet, driven by curious incentive, the once-enterprising bio-chemist Stamiri had spent an afternoon studying the compound, the pink-and-black jelly. What he had found was peculiar, to say the least...
Theoretically, the small, pink dishes and their blackened payloads were not even possible – within or outside of a secure, laboratory setting. Of course, he'd seen similar methods before; they were analogous with the Xyclecin treatments that were manufactured each and every day in the Svescize center. They were, simply, methods of chemical gene therapy; in the case of the normal treatment compounds, they were used to impart bone marrow colony-stimulating catalysts into the Kyrusians almost each and every day in the hope that, in time, the total, collective body of the people would begin to grow a natural, inheritable, genetic radio-resistance to the harsh, ionization fields that coursed through the land and the clouds of radioactive particulate that sometimes plagued the city.
Yet, even so, the peculiar composition of the so-called “Novicija” compound did not appear for this purpose. In truth, however, Stamiri was far from a geneticist, and maintained only a basic knowledge of some of the varied and often complex products that he managed in the manufacturing facility. Still, the tests and racket of analysis examinations performed in a single solitary evening dictated unusual characteristics for the strange, gelatinous composite the production staff had received. Unlike normal “composites,” as they were called by the staff, more appropriately known as “cocktails” to the average soul, the “Novicija” compound appear to not be chemical and inorganic – as was the status quo – but organic.
In truth, however, even as the young, ignorant bio-chemist exited the myriad of authentication windows and official reports, his fingers making quick work of inputting the proper access codes and production parameters, Stamiri didn't truly know much, if anything, about the implications his actions would eventually cause. While, as a bio-chemist, he could grasp the methodology and construction of the strange compound and could confirm that genetic material was present and organic, he was otherwise unable to delve deeper – or, at the time, was he willing. Ever-fading curiosity and attention was an ever-present flaw of the young manager.
Stamiri quickly pounded at the thin keyboard before the glass-plate monitor, watching as each bracket and parenthetical parameter was adjusted and completed, production values of the new treatments shifted and changed, small backgrounds of incomplete red switching to completed green. Seemingly endless tiers of necessary protocols and blanked submission slots were filled with the various formulas and procedural syntax to insure proper functioning of the tincture combination. For a moment, Stamiri wondered if, in fact, such a menial task was suited for his logical sensibilities, his aptitude toward such painstaking detail and necessary bureaucracy.
'It's not s' bad,' he pondered absently, the faint curl of a smile having formed at the edge of his mouth. Yet, the duty was finished in a matter of minutes, the faint, blinking icon stating “Application Complete” blazing in the bottom left of his monitor. For a moment, his finger hovered over the submission key, his eyes having shifted to the all-to-familiar act of checking and re-checking the figures that filled the screen.
With a faint sigh, Stamiri pressed the key.
Almost immediately, the production line – its fully automated processes and electronic servos “whirring” - was ground to an inexorable halt, the faint hissing of compressed gas being flushed from the massive drive-engines filling the expansive, empty room with the scent of clean, almost bleached air. Stamiri knew the proper procedures, and watched as toward the far, Eastern edge of the room, large modules began to whirr to life; massive banks of automatic, robotic arms began to extend from the dark, artificial caves they normally called home. In unison, a small, silver, metallic passage parted and opened, resulting in its immediate vicinity being filled with a chilling fog – an effect of the cold-storage unit. Yet, given the nature of the facility, the robotic servitors did not feel the cold, biting sting of the room, but merely reached inside; a faint click indicated a proper capture, and with the accompanying symphony of mechanical propensity, a small, pink and black canister was withdrawn from the frigid, protective environment, only to become placed within the small, circular port of the “Extraction Machine.”
Stamiri watched the monitor before him closely, eying the closed-circuit monitoring screens as the large, sterile machine began to extract the necessary material from the gelatinous material within the glass canister, only to be prepared for the mixing procedures. In truth, the bio-chemist found the entire procedure monotonous and bromidic, but it was a part of his job to insure the process continued without a hitch or issue. So he watched, he examined, and he listened as the large machine combined the “Novicija” compound with the nominal treatments.
In a matter of three minutes, the final product that exited the large machine was lifted by a tertiary robotic appliance, then placed within the nearby parameter testing device, bypassing the mass-production conveyers that, ultimately, lead to the actual manufacturing of the necessary compounds. Watching, even as his mind began to wander, Stramiri saw the bright, illuminated screen indicate in its vibrant green text that the production had been “SUCCESSFUL.” In his daze, as his mind at last returned to the thoughts of Mirie and the unjust desires that her sight brought, Stamiri depressed the “submission” key, finalizing the product for manufacturing.
The terminal gave a loud, truncated “bee-bee—” before the glass-plate monitor flickered, hissed, and faded to darkness. The sound jerked Stamiri from his daydream, only the initial preludes of a lustful embrace being forced from his mind as his eyes began to blink, the faintest sting having arisen in the passing seconds since the terminal deactivated. He perked an inquisitive brow, pressing the “submission” key repeatedly, before he attempted the emergency start-up procedures by depressing the necessary “ALT,” “DEL,” and “Submit” keys, though to no avail. “Fuckin' maintenance crew,” he cursed in biting tongue, “Always coming in here and fucking with shit...” He sighed as his eyes dropped to the base of the large terminal, stinging almost incessantly even as they blinked in an attempt to remove the irritation. Even through the moisture that had begun to cloud his vision, the faint blinking of the luminescent green diode was visible, though it at last became dark and faded to its transparent base.
The management module had never deactivated; it was against business protocols. Persistent observation was mandatory. As such, the abrupt total deactivation of the terminal struck Stamiri Lutizby as more than odd. The bio-chemist stood, his hand pressed against his eyes, rubbing violently as he once more tried to rid himself of the source of their irritation.
Around him, the production line was beginning the necessary business of manufacturing the re-calibrated treatment composites, the gentle buzzing of the drive-lines filling the large, decontaminated room with their constant orchestrations. A countless number of machines, servitors, testing modules, and various other automated devices began performing their duties within the facility, filling the air with the scent of ozone and the symphony of compressed pistons and the decompression of pneumatic canisters. Yet, it was the ominous sequence of “thunks” that startled Stamiri as he began to pass by the other terminals, noting their similar deactivation.
Quickly, Stamiri jerked his head entirely around, glancing immediately in the direction of the foreboding sounds that seemed to be resonating from the peripheries of the chamber. Just as his eyes crossed the main entrance to the production alcove, he watched as the bright, caged light above the security door flashed twice, then permanently shifted to the deep crimson hue indicating a total lock-down of the facility. His eyes had begun to run with hot, blazing tears as he sprinted to the door, gripped the handle, and jerked with all his might, but once more to no avail. The large, metallic hinges did not so much as hint at a budge, and as he stood, the resounding “thunks” continued to echo across the facility.
Stamiri turned, pivoting on his heel so quickly he nearly lost balance, extending his hands to brace himself against a nearby terminal. As he attempted to right himself, a burning, insidious cough forced its way from the depth of his lungs, stinging his lips and nostrils as the air rushed from his trachea and cavities.
Panic had begun to take its toll.
The bio-chemist turned middle-management officer charged himself with a second wind, rushing across the plastered, concrete floor of the sterile vault, briskly sprinting to the end of the massive production lines. His fists were raised when he impacted the solid door, bashing the curled balls of his palms against the uncaring, Orwellian edifice. Bloodied swathes of brushed steel and titanium formed as Stamiri pounded in futility against the massive unloading and distribution entry. Trails of the deepest carnelian tinge streamed along the painted, obsidian monolith, before they began to pool upon the floor, serving as stark contrast against the aseptic, ivory surface. In a final effort, he slammed his fist against the thick, glass port in the door, immediately resulting in his body being flung back by the pressurized atmosphere beyond, a loud cacophony of rushing, booming air flooding from the other side of the damaged glass before the small, visual portal was too sealed by a single cascade of steel.
Collapsed and wounded, his hands tarnished and gashed with shattered, tempered fragments and splinters of iron-wire filled glass, Stamiri reeled. The young, once-promising soul wailed, weeping to the machines and servitors that surrounded him, his eyes coated with thick, burning mucus. In this moment, in this single moment, as hope began to fade to desperation and the final threads of rational thought began to slip from Stamiri Lutizby's mind, he realized: only three souls remained in the production facility. No doubt, he now realized, he would never be able to see the tempting frame of Mirie, nor admire the peculiar, quirky elegance of Sasja. He was lost to the darkness; lost to the growing pain of his body, the heavy weight that had begun to build within his chest.
Stamiri seized. His mind lost all cognitive thought, lost the grip of pain in his hands, lost the control of his muscles and mind. He writhed in agony, though already the vital and sensitive neural pathways that mediated consciousness and sentience within his brain had begun to degrade. As he moaned, his vocal folds consumed in spasm, forcing incoherent garble from between his lips, his musculature collapsed and tendons relaxed, releasing his bowels and waste onto the pristine floor he so often despised. He rolled and churned; his teeth slammed onto his tongue, filling his mouth with a gush of arterial spray.
In the final moment before the oppressive weight of despair and anguish consumed him, Stamiri Lutizby tasted the faint air for the last time; an air that tasted neither of monotony nor necessity, but only of copper-tinged blood and the purified, artificial flavor of the nerve gas that filled the E09 Rubicon International Treatment Production Facility.
[ Deceased: +3 ( 3 ) ]
• • • • • • ‡ • • • • • •
State Shipping Highway 36
Outside Razketjistaetia, Zahdinjtsi, Kyrusia
May 9, 10 A.R.; 11:04 P.M. Local Time
[ T-10:00:12 ]
Vlasuli Razikrzresi was nominally known as a “contractual shipping manager.” In truth, the position was far from as prestigious as it sounded; Vlasuli was, in fact, little more than an over-glorified truck-driver and cargo-shipper, employed by Rubicon International, and drafted from his normal duties as an off-loader when necessity demanded it. Such as fate would have it, necessity demanded such an increase in cargo transport personnel – a fact Vlasuli didn't entirely detest. The peaceful silence, interrupted only by the gentle roar of the large, diesel engine of the double-linked trailer truck and the monotonous hum of the asphalt were a comforting escape from the often chaotic and laborious trials of the distribution centers.
With an idle flip of a switch, Vasuli activated the automated control system of the Rubicon International cargo hauler and watched as the steering column slowly corrected for his own, misguided driving, becoming accentuated and connected to the periodic pattern of the small, rectangular pads that lay below, imbedded within the pavement for such a purpose. He leaned back in his seat and unbuttoned the collar of his corduroy long-sleeve, allowing the cool air that rushed from the vehicle's air conditioning unit to bath his sweat-soaked chest. The Spring had been short-lived in Kyrusia, and the oppressive heat of Summer was approaching – even in the evening; though, the natural patterns of the seasons were only in part responsible for the heat. As the truck reached the first incline of the extensive, elevated roadways that lead from the boundaries of the Zahdinjtsi to the capital of Razketjistaetia, Vasuli peered from the flat-faced cabin.
All round were the signs of times of old, times gone, times devastated by the grotesque crime known as the Reckoning. The remains of Old Kyiv were little more than partially-obliterated ruins, pilfered and disrupted only by the periodic scintillations that consumed former industrial complexes, residential blocks, and even aged and decrepit governmental offices. Vasuli gazed out into the permeated darkness, spotting such a blaze in the distance, dwarfing the volumes of light pollution that, even from twenty-six kilometers away (as the small read-out on the dash-mounted portable computer indicated), erupted in a fountain of phosphorescent glory from the capital.
The night rides were always that way: quiet and brilliant. Not a single sole – military personnel or otherwise – were brave (or stupid) enough to trespass beyond the towering barrier walls of Razketjistaetia beyond the fading of the sun. No one ever dared; spare, of course, the shipping personnel and the cargo haulers, the “roughnecks” of the State, as some were known to call them. Of course, hazard pay in regards to travel was always available – and usually received.
Vasuli redirected his eyes from the weary, depressing ruins of the city that surrounded him as the hauler took a slow, generous turn to the left, the route converging onto a second tier of elevated roadway. The supported, massive roads that stretched across Old Kyiv were often treacherous – whether due to debris or sabotage by the derelict remnants of rogue traders and vagabonds below – and, as such, automated driving was recommended for the twenty-six kilometer stretch from the outskirts of the Secure Precinct to the capital's walls on Highway 36. Not to mention, it often gave Vasuli and his cohorts time to rest, to have a smoke, and to enjoy a moment of peace and quiet.
Taking advantage of such a lonely stretch, the middle-aged, pudgy “roughneck” lifted a cigarette from the soft, cigarette package, placed it between his lips, and lit it with one of the assorted, disposable lighters that littered the cabin of the truck – left either by himself or the fifteen other drivers that used the old, but dependable, Number 9. The nicotine was smooth, as most Savjrsen cigarettes were – at least the “Reds.” Vasuli had tried one of the flavored brands nearly a week ago, and found the addition of “grape” flavoring to the tobacco did little more than add an aftertaste and give him the feeling of glass sliding through his throat. 'Best to stick with the norm,' he pondered, pressing the small, window button on the side of the door, before tossing out the empty package. “A little more f'r the pile,” he murmured, his tone half satirical, half melancholic.
Old Kyiv – or, truly, simply “Kyiv” then – had been a beautiful city. A diamond in a crown filled with rubies. It had been the apex of culture and technological advancement in the State. Of course, it was also the central and best location to get a little blow or grass given the occasional inclination – an inclination Vasuli often had felt in those days. Now, however, with the state of “perpetual national emergency,” the once relaxed drug laws had become near-draconian, forcing regulation of everything from aspirin to methamphetamine – of which, the small cigarette now held between Vasuli's lips was laced. It was a trucker's secret: pack a cigarette with a few rocks of ice, and suddenly the night wasn't so long and the days were even shorter.
With a quick drag, Vasuli felt the burning heat of the clouded, glass-like rock siphoned into his lungs. He held fast, then released the carcinogenic toxins through his nostrils, filling the cab with the scent of home-cooked meth (a smell equitable to that of drain cleaner and ammonia) and the taste of over-the-counter cold medication in his mouth. Yet, the effects were worth it; for within a few moments, as the “roughneck's” eyes became widened and his pulse began to race, he suddenly felt wide awake – a blessing considering the fifteen deliveries he was scheduled to make.
For now, however, all Vasuli was concerned over was the twenty-or-so minutes he could simply sit, relax, and watch the destruction roll passed...
The massive walls of Razketjistaetia were over 180 meters in height. They stood in service as massive, impenetrable barricades against the hordes of afflicted nejmrutav within the boundaries of Old Kyiv and the countless, insurgent criminals and transients that still dwelt within the ruined city, living off half-rigged hydroponic projects and half-scorched debris. In truth, they were the most visible symbols of so-called “Kyrusian adaptation” forced upon the nation since the Reckoning.
Vasuli simply saw them as another hassle.
The small, portable computer released a sequential tone of “zee-zee-gee” as first one hundred meters to the end of the automated driving senors approached, then fifty, twenty-five, and, at last, the tone simply continued. Vasuli Razikrzresi flipped the driving system into the “off” position, the small diode ceasing it's red flashing in unison with the annoying tones just as he began to steadily slow to a halt, the large, massive, sealed doors ahead that marked entry into the capital serving as apprehensive deterrents against an attempted siege or forceful entry – not to mention the line of defensive countermeasures (from automated gun-turrets to rocket-assisted short-range artillery) that lined the entire region of the massive wall.
As the massive, compressed air brakes of the large hauler released their weight, slamming the composite pads into position, a voice echoed across the small speaker in the dash of Number 9.
“Mister...,” there was a momentary pause as the hauler pulled into position just before the massive gates, the mechanical echo of large clamps seizing to the forward and rear axles of the truck, preventing further movement, “Mister Razikrzresi, yes, Razikrzresi, this is Barricade Redoubt 56, Sector K, please slide your identification – you know the procedures.”
Vasuli didn't bother speaking-up. The guards for the wall where the equivalent of the Department of Vehicle Registration workers: they didn't care, just follow the directions, and the entire process would, hopefully, be as painless as possible. With a quick tug from his belt, Vasuli gripped the small, plastic identification card attached to a retractable spool on his slacks, then quickly slid it through a narrow slit in the side of the dash-mounted, portable computer.
“One moment please,” the disembodied guard's voice echoed into the cabin of the truck. It had always taken several minutes for the appropriate scans and examinations to be fulfilled; more often than not, full-scale searches were performed – even on scheduled deliveries. It was a surprise for Vasuli, however, to hear the disembodied voice echoed back into the cabin of the Number 9 less than a minute after identifying both himself and his haul. “Mister Razikrzresi, you're scheduled for fifteen deliveries of 'Xyclecin' treatments in the capital today, is that correct?”
Vasuli nodded, then realized that such a gesture would not be seen, then further corrected himself in the realization that, in fact, if such was desires, it could be; nevertheless, he spoke: “That's c'rrect.”
“Top priority tonight, is it?” the voice asked in a questioned tone, though a hint of comical camaraderie was present.
“S'pose so,” Vasuli remarked, scratching the crotch of his slacks and further adjusting himself, “Y' know they don't tell us shit.”
The disembodied voice laughed for a moment before the audible release of the pneumatic gas beneath the truck was heard, indicating the release of the locking clamps. “You've been cleared,” the voice resounded, “Just one more moment to release the defenses, and you'll be on your way.”
Every time a delivery was made to Razketjistaetia, Vasuli always despised the release of the “defenses.” In truth, the “defenses” were never “released,” only the massive, colossal pressure of twenty atmospheres that dwelt just beyond the first wall entry – a measure intended to prevent unauthorized access from both sides, resulting in any attempts being violently crushed beneath the explosive pressure of a resulting concussive blast from one of the penetrated, outer shields.
Above the large, double-loaded hauler, a set of twelve, massive drums began to spin, cycling outward, large propelled plumes of compressed air gushing around through the perforated filters of each. With each cycle, the drums extended farther from the gray-black, cyclopean walls of the barrier, filling the air with the faintest perfume of sterility. Vasuli took the opportunity for what it was and rolled his window up, mediating the uncomfortable scent. The process normally took nearly ten minutes, but it seemed, as if on cue, the gates disengaged, filling the cabin of Number 9 with the eerie glow of the inner city.
“Must of expect'd me,” Vasuli commented, slowly depressing the accelerator, lurching the massive hauler forward. As he slowly drove forward, his ears released a painful buzz before they finally popped, adjusting to the slight pressure change within the walls. The “roughneck” reached forward and thumped an icon labeled “Schedule” on the dashboard computer, immediately eliciting the loading of a small spreadsheet detailing his route and delivery schedule.
“First stop,” he groaned, “Sector 06 State-Commissariat of Radiological Affairs Treatment Dispensation Center.” Having pulled into the city's lower streets (streets not fully-automated or high-speed), Vasuli took a moment to collect himself, re-buttoning the collar of his shirt, retrieving another cigarette from an unopened pack, and with a quick twist of the radio dial, filling the cabin with the sound of the nightly air quality reports, the “roughneck” pulled out onto the main road, despising what the city had become, ignorant of what it soon will be...
[ Deceased: +0 ( 3 ) ]
• • • • • • ‡ • • • • • •
S.C. of Radiological Affairs Treatment Dispensation Center S-06
Sector 06, Razketjistaetia, Kyrusia
May 10, 10 A.R.; 9:05 A.M. Local Time
[ ( Zero Hour ) ]
When Svetja Darhnev awoke in the 7 o'clock hour of May 10th, sheets tightly wrapped around her slender frame, a stranger's arm slung across her voluptuous bosom, perhaps hoping to catch a grope and a lay before they both headed off for their own duties, errands, and careers, never to cross paths again, she had her schedule set. Wake-up. Shower. Gather everything. Leave unnoticed. Such was her routine. As a relatively successful, middle-class woman of twenty-seven years, she had her habits set in stone and could afford to throw away money on nightly outings to clubs and bars, trawling for that evening's rut in the proverbial hay. Some of her co-workers at the small, telecommunications firm for which she worked had passed rumors of her particularly evident “lifestyle,” but she didn't much care. Rumors were what they were – no matter how founded in truth they may have been.
In truth, Svetja hadn't always been such a whore – a designation she only applied when deep in thought and consumed in self-loathing. She had loved – truly loved – once, but that was the past; yet another past obliterated by the Reckoning, buried within her mind, and locked safe within her most guarded memories. Now was the present, and, at least she believed, that was all that mattered.
Even so, the morning of May 10th was different for Svetja. It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays meant one thing: treatment. Mandatory, bi-weekly treatment. It was a mandate imposed upon all Kyrusian citizens, their specific schedules determined by the State-Commissariat of Radiological Affairs. Not that the S.C.R.A. did much to force the treatments onto the citizenry, though they were legally authorized to do so through the use of the Civil Contamination Prevention Bureau, but it was better to be safe than sorry (or detained in a “Decontamination and Rehabilitation Center”) - especially once the state of near-persistent radiological fallout was taken into account.
Yet, Svetja knew her schedule would be slightly different, and as she approached the S-06 Treatment Dispensation Center, her small, leather purse slung over her arm and her identification card in hand, that extra time would be needed. Luckily, she wouldn't be noticed missing from work until 11 o'clock, giving her plenty of time to file the necessary paperwork to receive treatment in Sector 06 – her home sector being Sector 17 – and to hail a taxi to her office downtown. Luckily, as she approached the small, rotating door of the S-06 Center, she was relieved to remember that at least she would not suffer being harassed or gawked-at by men in the Center. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were restricted to women only, with Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays reserved for men. Nearly a week ago, after spending a night on the town, drinking, partying, and having a particularly wild ride with three men she'd met at “Two-Two” (a downtown nightclub inhabited by young, mostly up-and-coming government bureaucrats and business officials), she'd been forced to call and notify her Center that she'd have to come in on Monday – the day reserved solely for rescheduled treatment without gender restrictions.
She vowed she'd never make that mistake again.
Svetja stepped into the doorway, pressed her hand to the glass, and slowly walked, forcing the door to rotate counter-clockwise with each step. As she entered, she realized, much to her surprise, that her day may go better than planned, for the entire Center was empty, only staff and medical personnel were inside, shuffling behind the large, featureless white wall and the two, small, meshed-glass partitions. 'Hot damn!' her mind reeled, a jovial smile becoming stretched across her rounded visage.
“Morning!” she announced as she stepped to the small window, sliding her identification card through the narrow slot beneath the thick, tempered glass.
“Morning,” the woman behind the partition murmured in a dull, monotonous drone, her eyes having quickly scanned Svetja's card. “You're from Sector 17,” her eyes focused through the glass on the young woman before her, younger than herself by nearly fifteen years. “You'll need to fill-out this card,” she further confirmed, simultaneously sliding a small, rectangular card-stock form back through the slot after swiping Svetja's card through the computer scanner. “You'll be called in shortly, please have a seat,” the drone continued.
Svetja, obviously not deterred, smiled in joy, taking one of the assorted pencils that were haphazardly tossed into a canister upon the counter after retrieving her identification card and “Auxiliary Treatment Form,” or, as it was commonly known, an “A(2).”
The form was rather standard, filled with questions about medication, date of birth, citizenship status, home address, and other such nonsense that, no doubt, would be known by simply glancing at her identification certificate; however, such was the often-criticized (at least privately) bureaucracy of the State and the Central Authority. Nevertheless, the young, brunette-haired Svetja maintained her pleasant demeanor, quickly filling out the form, just checking the final box that indicated a compliance to return to her home sector Treatment Center for her next session, as mandated by law, when the door to the small lobby opened and an aged, yet handsome man, dressed in a long, full, white coat; a cream-toned button-down; and plain, khaki slacks stepped out.
“Miss Darhnev?” he questioned, a weary yet honest smile engraved upon his face, as if, for once, he was happy to see the first patient of the day.
“Yes, sir,” she smiled before she rose, giving a polite nod and extending her hand for greeting, a gesture repeated by the middle-aged gentleman.
“Come with me,” he confirmed, turning and holding the door as Svetja slid the A(2) card back through the slot beneath the receptionist's window and returned the pencil.
In truth, as they walked toward Exam Room One, Svetja wouldn't have been apprehensive about sleeping with the man that walked before her, guiding her; sure, he was perhaps twenty years her senior, but he had a maintained style and a rugged handsome quality. Perhaps it was the salt-and-peper hair that he had obviously spent little time on that attracted her toward him most, however.
“Have a seat,” the doctor motioned toward a small, elevated bed in the small exam room, turning his attention from the young and beautiful Svetja to remove the small, transdermal injector from its wall-mounted box. Though he had been pleasant, once the examination room door had been closed, he entered the stoic mindset of a professional.
As the good doctor prepared the transdermal injector, retrieving a small vial of “Xyclecin” from a nearby cabinet before insuring it was placed firmly in the barrel of the device, Svetja remained silent and professional – at least to some degree. As the doctor's back was turned, she raised her hands and swiftly unbuttoned the top of her already revealing blouse, exposing the most subtle of curves within her cleavage, the uppermost rim of burgundy lace exposed from beneath her purple, frill-hemmed top. She tugged aside the collar of both her blouse and her jacket, further exposing both her neck and chest to the man just as he turned, the injector firmly gripped and armed.
Svetja took note as the man quickly glanced down then returned his gaze, firmly, to her own eyes. In response, she permitted the most demure of seductive grins to be plastered upon her flushing features. Such was the way she operated; she was not a “floozy” who through her assets at the first man she saw. She had standard and a professionalism to her seduction; of course, given enough gin and tonics, such urbane sensibilities were often wholly abandoned, replaced with advantageous groping, flaunting of her well-rounded and firm breasts, and such inappropriate acts as deliberately and purposefully loosing her belt as to expose the hem of her classical, frilled undergarments.
“All right,” the doctor mused, slowly sliding aside Svetja's hand with a gentle, medicinal touch, “this may sting for a moment, but you'll be fine; I promise.” He placed the metallic end of the injector to the base of the young vixen's neck, eliciting the most minute of anxious jumps from the woman due to the sterile, chilled touch; even so, in his professionalism, the treatment doctor maintained his professionalism, and with the single squeeze of a trigger, the faint “tusst” of the compressed cartridge released, driving the treatment solution directly through the flesh of Svetja's exposed, rose-colored throat.
“There we go!” the aged doctor announced, pulling the transdermal gun from Svetja's throat and quickly crossing to the small, red box on the far wall to which the device was to be re-placed.
The part-time telecommunications officer, part-time seductress smiled for a moment before allowing her absent-minded nature to return the top button of her blouse to its proper place. The treatments were quick, swift inconveniences levied upon all citizens that were not willing to allow themselves to become subjected to the harsh, ionizing radiation and detrimental particulate that resulted from the catastrophe nearly a decade before. Such an inconvenience – especially if it granted such a fine view – was not one Svetja minded, especially given such a pleasant and gracious gift as a virtually empty Treatment Center.
The doctor did not turn back, but merely opened the door, before repositioning himself to allow Svetja's exit, a pleasant grin presented. “Have a good day, Miss Dahrnev,” he elicited, maintaining his pleasant and jovial demeanor, the professionalism seemingly having faded the moment the door opened.
“And yourself, doctor,” Svetja issued in retort before beginning her exit, only to stop the moment she reached the presence of the S-06 treatment officer. “Call me sometime,” she smiled, giving a playful wink to the aged officer, “I know you can get my number...” Upon the finalized solicitation, Svetja simply entered into the hallway and began her schedule, entering the lobby – not bothering to wave to the rude receptionist.
As she exited the Treatment Center, she raised her left arm, jostling her wrist in order to correct the position of her watch. Svetja smiled. She was on time, and her schedule would be fine; she'd planned for everything.
Almost everything...
[ Deceased: +0 ( 3 ) · Infected: +1 ( 1 ) ]
Out-of-Character Information
As indicated, this thread is rated MATURE due to:
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Until a later date, this thread is to assumed to be Secret; In-Character and all information
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Until that time, feel free to read and enjoy the story as it develops; also, feel free to
post Out-of-Character responses, questions, comments, etc. Any O.O.C. comments
that are apparently obnoxious or contain rule-violating content will be reported as
spam and removal will be requested.
In regards to methodology and structure, this thread is a continuing story,
not strictly a “roleplay” at this current time. At a latter time, this will change; until that
point, In-Character posts will be restricted to the thread creator.
This thread is structured in such a way as to consist of three chapters, the first
initialized with this post (i.e. Chapter One: “The Regrettable Rose”), which will
consist of several posts/parts per chapter.
As a final note:
If you know information about the plot, do NOT post said information.
Enjoy...
As indicated, this thread is rated MATURE due to:
Adult situations, graphic violence, drug references, drug use, sexual references,
graphic sexual implications, graphic language, and other content not suitable
for viewers under the age of eighteen.
VIEWER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED!
Please do NOT post In-Character responses in this thread.
Currently, this thread is to be maintained as strictly closed to In-Character responses.
Out-of-Character commentary, responses, or questions may be submitted here given they are clearly
labeled as “Out-of-Character” and maintain a professional presentation and quality of content.
Until a later date, this thread is to assumed to be Secret; In-Character and all information
garnered herein and used in an In-Character setting will be assumed to be metagaming
if proper authorization from the original creator is not granted. At a later date –
as indicated by the “Semi-closed” thread indicator – a specific portion of this
thread will be open for In-Character responses and/or interaction.
Until that time, feel free to read and enjoy the story as it develops; also, feel free to
post Out-of-Character responses, questions, comments, etc. Any O.O.C. comments
that are apparently obnoxious or contain rule-violating content will be reported as
spam and removal will be requested.
In regards to methodology and structure, this thread is a continuing story,
not strictly a “roleplay” at this current time. At a latter time, this will change; until that
point, In-Character posts will be restricted to the thread creator.
This thread is structured in such a way as to consist of three chapters, the first
initialized with this post (i.e. Chapter One: “The Regrettable Rose”), which will
consist of several posts/parts per chapter.
As a final note:
If you know information about the plot, do NOT post said information.
Enjoy...
