Gods or Demons: The Connerian Thread [IC Nation Maintenance]

[United States of Conner]

Welcome, one and all, to the Connerian Maintenance Thread! This is intended to be a place where I can write about various things happening in the United States of Conner.

Yeah, yeah, boo all you want...

Anything and everything that happens here, unless noted otherwise, is Secret IC. That means that if I write a post detailing a high-level meeting between the President and Secretary of State discussing plans to betray a high-level ally, nobody including said high-level ally would be able to write about it without metagaming. So don't do it.

Obviously, something that is public, like a press conference, film, or the like can be used by all characters and nations within the DM canon, and the II canon as well if noted. If you have a question about whether something can be used by your character, feel free to ask, though I'll have a list of designations I'll use to denote what's secret and what isn't.

I doubt many other people will be posting here, but just in case, please don't post here at all unless I give you the go-ahead. Likely, we'll just use a different thread.

Some Symbols I Might Use:
[S-IC] - Secret - In Character
[P-IC] - Public - In Character
This will be updated over time.

[United States of Conner]

Boris Anderson burst around the corner, and into a dark alleyway. His white tuxedo dripping wet, he hurtled over a trash bin, slid for a split second on the wet ground, and kept running, beginning to breath a little quickly.

A second later, a second man burst around the corner. This man tapped the side of his head, bringing noise flowing like a river into his ear.

"Target is moving southbound on 43rd. Just passed through the alley between BofC and the Museum."

The man hurtled over the same trash can and continued his pursuit as he barked, "No shit!"

More voices came over his radio.

"Agent Jones, two cars have just pulled up at the end of the alley. Plates matched those used by Anderson before."

The man replied, "Copy."

While speaking, he pulled a small pistol from the inside of his jacket. Now, he could see two cars, and the man in the white jacket climbing into the first of the two. Without hesitating, Jones opened fire on the rear car. One tire blew out, followed by another. The car began to lean to the left side as the door of the first car slammed shut, and the wheels squealed - an old model car, probably to avoid a problem with vehicle computers. Placing the gun back in his jacket, Jones leaped forward and grabbed on to the rear fender of the car and pulled his body up as the car shot forward.

It was 3:00 AM, and as such, the traffic in this part of town was light. That gave the driver of the other car a perfect line of sight to pull out a small automatic pistol, get out of the car, and open fire on the figure holding on to the rear fender.

The first two bullets impacted into the bulletproof rear windshield in front of Jones's head. The third slammed into his left shoulder, throwing him up the back windshield. Jones used that movement to get onto the top of the car.

By now, the driver knew he was there. The upper sunroof was lowered over the glass, putting an opaque cover between the inside of the car and the agent on top of it. Frowning, Jones caught snippets of chatter through the wind and rain whipping at his face.

"Rapture local authorities are responding ... reports of shots ... party Agent Jones and target attended ... reports of car ... 105 KPH ... SHIELD forces inbound ..."

Jones ignored the chatter and pulled himself further up onto the car. He could hear police sirens now as he swung himself onto the side of the car. The driver didn't have time to turn his head fully before Jones had his gun out and had put a point-blank bullet through the window and into the man's forehead.

Blood sprayed against the passenger window as the car swerved. Jones hastily pulled himself up, though not before his foot smacked into the ground. The car began to slow down, and when Jones felt safe, he threw himself backwards to kill relative motion. Jones hit the ground and rolled, and he could feel his ribs being abused, and he was sure that his ankle was now broken as he began to slow down his roll. He could hear the car slam into a nearby building.

When he had stopped, Jones pulled off his jacket. There, he found his white shirt and black vest stained with blood, and his ankle was throbbing. He had probably hit his head at some point, because he was seeing stars and his head felt like it was about to explode. He could hear voices shouting at him, and responded to "Rapture PD! Hands on your head!" by placing his hands above his body. The shouts were gradually supplemented by barks of, "SHIELD! Hands where I can see 'em!" When the footsteps grew louder, Jones could hear over his radio, "Command, this is Delta 1-3. We've got both of them."

Then, Jones was on a stretcher. He could see a dozen men in black body armor with assault rifles surrounding the car, pulling Anderson - seemingly alive - and the driver - in flames - from the wreckage of the car, which was beginning to burn. The last thing he heard was, "Good. Bring him in for debriefing."

Then Jones allowed himself to pass out.

[United States of Conner]

SHIELD Black Site, Atlantic Ocean

Three suited men were standing in a dark room. Through the glass, a figure was visible, slumped over the table. The man wore a white tuxedo, and his face, though no longer bloodied, was scarred from the recent car crash he had been in. Nobody spoke until the door opened and Agent Kevin Jones walked in.

One of the others turned to him. "Agent Jones. How was ultrasound?"

Jones raised his foot to show the bulging cast, a rarity in the days of ultrasonic bone manipulation. "They put me in for an hour and then said I still needed a cast. Something about injuries sustained while hanging and then falling from a speeding vehicle not covered under ultrasound treatment."

The others chuckled as Jones continued, "But my ribs are fine, even if they're sore. I took some painkillers and slept for a few minutes - I'll be fine."

At that moment, the door inside the cell opened, and another man in a white shirt and grey pants walked in. Anderson seemed to recognize him, and though the glass was soundproof and the speaker system was turned off, all four agents could read lips.

Anderson looked up and smiled, his slight Prussian accent inaudible though the glass. "Agent Smithers. How's your father?"

Smithers ignored him, though there was a flash of pain for a second. "Here's the deal, Anderson. You're going to tell me everything I want to know, or I'm going to put your head through that table. You got me?"

Anderson smiled. "You can't do that - your damn Connerian laws won't let y-"

The four agents inside could not lip read the rest, for at that moment, Smithers placed his hand on the back of Anderson's head and whipped it into the table. Anderson's head left a small dent and then snapped back, and the man cried out.

Smithers' voice was clearly very firm now as he spoke to Anderson, who was now bleeding from a cut above his hairline. "I don't think I made myself clear. We are not under Connerian law. You will tell me what I need to know or I will make you regret being born."

Anderson's hands rose slightly - as much as they could bring shackled to the table - in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, I'll talk."

The four men nodded to one another, and they walked out of the room and into the cell with the open door. Jones slammed the door behind him.

[United States of Conner]

Four Panther VTOLs zoomed quickly over the lush grass of terraformed Antarctica. The twin-engine crafts, with adjustable jet engines thrusting them forward, were currently black to help them camouflage with the cloudy night sky. As they began to see the grass just beneath them fill with specks of white - the terraforming system becoming weaker as they came closer to unclaimed territory, Colonel Jack Wilson grabbed the mic in one of the cabins and spoke into it.

"All teams, ETA to target two minutes. Location is grid Oscar Romeo Golf Mike Niner. Tangos are heavily armed and well-trained. Expect heavy resistance. Target is in building Delta, take alive at all costs. Try to take a militia member as well, but tangos are expendable. ETA ninety seconds. One team will be assaulting from each side of the compound. Team check."

At this point, the crafts had passed over the long gray strip of concrete that separated the unclaimed militia territory from Connerian land - the First Line. Though it was a lot of overkill to combat the local militias that ruled the worthless parts of Antarctica, suspicion had it that it would be a beachhead in an enemy invasion of Antarctica - it was common knowledge that the militias got foreign funding under the table. Plus, when your locked in an asymmetrical war with bloodthirsty militias, it was a good idea to have a strong defense.

A pair of anti-aircraft cannons and three rocket pods turned towards them, but quickly moved back as their clearance was checked and double-checked.

"Bravo Check."

"Charlie Check."

"Delta Check."

"Teams are go. Weapons check. HUD check. NV check. ETA sixty seconds. Teams split."

At this point, the four VTOLs, which had been flying side by side, split off. Each VTOL turned and hovered at a corner of the militia compound, and Wilson spoke again.

"Descend. ETA ten seconds. Prep for go. Pilot, count on hostiles?"

A voice came from the front of the craft. "I count about a hundred on thermal, syncing to HUDs now ... good."

Wilson barked into the mic. "Go in three ... two ... one ... green light, we have green light. Send again, we have green light."

The back door of the door dropped open, and ten troopers in black armor moved quietly out of each craft. Their vision was bathed in green for a second, and then the outline of six buildings surrounded by a fence. Voices flooded over the radio.

"Team Charlie, 412's at the fence. I count five. In position."

"Delta ready."

"Bravo standing by."

"Alpha go. Execute."

With that, the soldiers opened fire. Though their silenced rifles made no noise, one of the men on the inside must have had the good reflexes to hit the base alarm before he flew backwards from the impact of three bullets hitting his chest. Klaxons howled throughout the building, and men with heavy guns stormed out and took whatever cover they could find, firing blindly into the night. Wilson saw a man next to him go down to the ground with his hand on his shoulder and swore, barking into his radio.

"Divvy up! Alpha, see if you can flank tangos to your left. Bravo, move to the right. Delta, push in and try to come at them from behind - your group is the smallest."

After a couple minutes of not working, however, radio chatter began to get a bit more frantic.

"I need immediate medevac at grid Casper Sierra Delta Romeo India, two down, I send again, two down."

"10-4, sending medevac to your location. Standby."

"We're losing ground - there are too many!"

"Command - This is Charlie Juliet Whiskey actual. I need immediate airstrike on grids Echo Golf Zero Niner Delta, how copy?"

"Negative, Whiskey. Collateral risk is too great. Air attack support is inbound, callsign Hellfire - ETA sixty seconds, standby."

The Connerians had began to make a bit of progress when one of the most beautiful sounds a soldier could hear came over the battlefield. The low roar of two A-47 attack aircraft, followed by the loud whine of an GC-980 gunship. As the two A-47s made their run, dirt, stones, and bodies were thrown into the air by the dual Vengeance miniguns. A second later, a flank of the militiamen exploded as one of the GC-980's guns flashed, followed a second later by a massive boom that shook the ground.Wilson grabbed his radio and spoke into the designated air channel.

"Hellfire, adjust your attack to grid Juliet X-Ray India Charlie Delta so we can push through."

"Copy, Whiskey. Gunner, 45mm to grid Juliet X-Ray India Charlie Delta."

A second later, the left flank of the militiamen's defense went up in flames. Wilson made a couple of hand signals, and his team of nine began to move forward as the tenth man limped back to the VTOL for medical attention.

"Hellfire, we are moving into building Delta. Cover us!"

"Copy. Gunner, adjust to 20mm and cover Alpha Team."

The nine jogged forwards as gunshots echoed around them. Anyone in their way was either killed by Alpha's fire or by the consistent fire of 20mm shells from the GC-980. The dark night was illuminated by flashing red lights and bright explosions as the Connerians began to push the militiamen back into their own base. When they had reached the door, Wilson took a six-gauge shotgun off his back and muttered, "I don't get paid enough for this." Then he barked out, "Breaching!" and blew both the hinges off the door with shotgun blasts. Another man lobbed a flash grenade inside the building, and when the men had heard a flash, they moved in. The first man Wilson say was thrown backwards, his chest destroyed by an eight-gauge shotgun blast. The other four men in the room crumpled to the floor, and the men moved to the next room. Through there, they could hear voices over all the gunfire.

"Sir, we must leave. Connerian forces are moving in."

Another voice spoke up. "Sir, we cannot hold the soldiers off for much longer. We are taking heavy casualties."

A third voice, this one rough and with a twinge of a Spanish accent, replied, "Fine. Let's move. This is what I get for depending on the militia for protection, but soon this spy crap will be over and I'll be home in Espana."

A hand closed upon the doorknob, and the door opened. Two of the men immediately crumpled, and the third turned to see bullet holes in their foreheads. He turned back to the front, and the last thing Señor Miguel Gutierrez saw was a black-gloved fist approaching his face at something close to terminal velocity.

Jack Wilson shook his hand and moved into the office as two other men picked up Gutierrez's limp body and dragged it into the room. The rest of the soldiers followed, and the door to the office was closed and a counter-breacher explosive was fitted on the back. Wilson began to bark out orders. "Grab these laptops, drives, and files. I want this place wiped clean of intel before we go. Shape C-4 charges to blow outwards here, here, and here - those will destabilize the buildings enough to collapse it. All teams - we're pulling out. Target is secure. I need an immediate exfil on my location."

Another voice came over the radio. "Whiskey, this is Panther Alpha. Moving to your location, Delta floor one, right side. Standby, ETA twenty seconds."

Screams could now be heard over the gunshots, which were dying down. Outside, voices could be heard, and footsteps were audible. Wilson barked out, "Drives behind the desk, put target there as well. Everyone else, positions. Time your reloads."

Just then, the door exploded. Flying outwards, bodies were thrown into the air, which was now crowded bullets flying past each other. The soldiers now were all on one knee, letting bullets fly. Every few seconds, someone would yell, "Reloading!" and would drop a mag, someone else making sure to cover him. About thirty seconds of this had passed, when one of the Panthers came to a stop outside the window, its engines angled vertically to keep it suspended in mid-air. As the men began to get inside, Wilson barked at the pilot. "What took you so long?"

The pilot turned and motioned to a pair of crew members, who dragged out wicked-looking machine guns with under barrel grenade launchers. "Tangos have RPGs. Had to take a couple down."

Gutierrez's body was thrown unceremoniously onto the craft, followed by the laptops, file folders, and anything else that was in his office. When the last trooper was onboard, the crewmen fired off a salvo of grenades, tearing the office, foyer, and everyone in it to shreds. As the VTOls flew away, Wilson spoke cooly into his radio. "All accounted for?"

Once he had made sure all forty soldiers were off the ground, Wilson changed channels and said, "Hellfire, all teams off the ground. I send again, all of the ground. We have RPG fire on our tail."

"Copy that. Team, all assets accounted for. Gunner, torch this place."

With that, the GC-980 thousands of feet above opened fire with its biggest guns. 150mm guns boomed as buildings turned to fireballs as A-47s zoomed over the compound, razing the place to the ground. When the crew chief was apparently satisfied that the compound had been destroyed, the planes turned around and began to follow the VTOLs, which were already on the horizon.

Meanwhile, in one of the VTOLs, Wilson spoke into his radio as they passed over the First Line. "Command, this is Whiskey Actual. Target secured."

[United States of Conner]

A palpable chill went over the office of the Hyperion Police Department as the men in suits walked in.

"How long has the target been gone?"

Jordan Adams flinched as one of the men spoke to him. They had been working with the four men in suits for almost a day now. Ever since it had been revealed a man had broken into a Hyperion office building and stole what the men called "classified information", they had been keeping some woman in protective custody. They hadn't learned much, until it had been revealed that the woman was the thief's former lover, and they had had some plan to expose "major federal secrets" on the Internet. Not twenty minutes after they had learned that, the four men had shown up.

Now, they were in trouble. One of the few things they had learned was that the woman was The only person who could decode what was on the drive that held the information. And now, she was gone, victim of a power outage coupled with sleeping gas that had allowed the woman to be taken by the mystery man.

"About ten minutes, sir. We have a lock on their vehicle."

The suit nodded and took a minute to converse with one of his partners. When he was done, he turned back to Adams.

"Good. Arm yourselves and send a squad with us. We'll move in three minutes."

Glad the matter was out of his hands, Adams notified one of the Armed Response Squads to move out.


Twenty minutes later, they were where the car they had been tracking had stopped. The men in suits got out of their car, followed by a group of figures in black body armor. One of the suits stepped away and spoke to the commander of the Armed Response Squad.

"Stand by and take positions in a perimeter around the house. Do not move in unless we require assistance."

The man in suit didn't mean that, though the ARS commander couldn't have known. Something that could incapacitate these agents would easily take out one ARS squad.

As for the ARS commander, he was all too happy to stand back and watch. Something about this rubbed him the wrong way - those guys in armor weren't Hyperion PD, nor were they SHIELD - they wore futuristic-looking black body armor and helmets that covered their face. They also carried glowing automatic weapons, something the commander wanted no part of.

As the suits and figures lined up by the door, a thermal scan was taken. Inside the small flat were two figures, one sitting at a table and the other on a couch. One was typing at a laptop.

The suit in front nodded to his men, pulled out a wicked-looking automatic pistol, and kicked the door down. Without stepping inside, he pulled a flash bang out of his coat and lobbed it inside.

The bang was deafening, and the flash could be seen through the windows - the day was starting to darken. The suits moved in, followed by the armored men. As the man on the couch stood up, a gun came into view.

The first suit barked, "Drop it!"

When he did not comply, the suit shot him twice. Both bullets impacted the right shoulder and sent him to the ground. Without hesitating, the suits moved over to the woman sitting at a table and said, "Is the information secure?"

The woman seemed to have trouble processing, so the suit repeated himself. The woman just nodded and mutely handed him a flash drive. The suit took it, placed it on the table, and fired a shot into it. Then he turned to the woman.

"Did you see what was on that drive?"

The woman nodded again. The suit sighed.

"Pity. Take her to Erasure. 24 hour."

Two of the armored men moved forward and helped the woman up, carrying her out to the vehicle.

With that, two more armored men grabbed the laptop and the remnants of the flash drive. Another two picked up the man, who was gritting his teeth with pain. They were both brought to the waiting black cars outside. The suits followed the men in armor and were about to get in the car when the ARS commander walked up.

"Sir, the two ..."

"Commander, these two will be taken care of. No further action is needed from your department. You are to tell the people currently gathering on the street that this was a narcotics raid. I will ensure your commanding office knows of your heroic actions during this event."

The commander gulped, nodded, and turned around. As he was about to begin issuing orders, the black car pulled out and sped away. It could have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he heard someone saying, "The Foundation is not fooled easily, Mr. Novaki ... you walked into the trap."

[United States of Conner]

The air was crisp. Leaves were falling. Fall was here, but that didn't concern the people huddled in the little shop. Their minds were on practical matters. Like the allegiance of the three men who had just walked through the door.

It was August 17th, 1993. The shop was in the middle of the Flood neighborhood, one of the roughest parts of Valcom. Most of the people here lived on low incomes. They shared homes; shared rooms; shared beds. When there wasn't enough to go around, everyone had to make sacrifices. Well, everyone that was willing to. Some others turned to more selfish methods. Ironically, these selfish bastards were drawn to each other - and that's how you got gangs.

Their membership spanned backgrounds - the only common link was a lack of money coupled with some other unfortunate circumstance. Maybe they were exposed to violence early, or maybe they only had one parents or maybe nobody at all. Wherever they came from, though, there was no question what they were now - brutal groups of thugs. That aptly described the three men mentioned previously.

The three had sat down at a table near the back of the shop, but everybody knew who at least one of them was - Mario Torresarpi. Intimidating, powerful, untouchable. Whispers had begun to spread as he stood, his posse of two standing behind him. "I hope you all know, this is Damned territory. Pay your goddamn fees." "Protection" fees, of course, were common in this area. Blatant extortion was all it was. Nevertheless, the people paid up, knowing their lives were worth more. One man refused initially and was whipped in the head with a pistol. Torresarpi took the money from his wallet as another customer tried to stop the bleeding from his head.

With their business concluded, the three men left the shop. Some of the customers were shaken, but the older ones, they weren't fazed. This was just life. Not many had been keeping up with the news, so they couldn't know what had passed Congress on August 15th. What could change the dominance of these gangs? These people saw more of the Damned than they did the government.

As the wounded man sat holding a rag to his head, he heard some odd sounds - a couple bangs, a short bark, a door slamming, wheels squealing on pavement. Must have been nothing.



The next day, the man came back to the restaurant. Same place, same time. Only this time, there was a large crowd gathered in front of the little storefront. Curious, the man peeked in to find a large group of armored ... soldiers. There was no other word for them. Instead of gang colors they wore black body armor, and instead of pistols and knives they carried assault rifles with grenade launchers. Their helmets obscured their voices, making them look almost alien. Six of them stood there for a while, menacing in a way nobody living here had ever seen, until one tapped the side of its forehead. The figure's mask retracted to reveal the face of a man, who immediately spoke, his voice magnified with no megaphone.

"Citizens of the United States of Conner. You live in an area under siege. Your bravery in these trying conditions is to be commended - you have not fallen prey to your baser instincts. You are an example of what a Connerian truly is."

"However, some among you have indeed fallen. They prey on the weak, the disadvantaged. They would see everything you have built destroyed, all for their own personal gain. Their betrayal will not go unpunished."

The man made a signal with his hand, and two other figures open the door to a waiting armored vehicle. They were close enough now that the man could see the insignia on their black sleeves - a bird, clutching a shield. Nothing he had ever seen before. These weren't cops - cops didn't come around this part of the neighborhood, except for corrupt ones meeting with gangsters or off duty cops looking for a score. These people carried themselves with an air of authority, and they were outfitted in a way that suggested they were well funded, but they definitely weren't cops.

Out of the vehicle came six men and two women. Among them were Torresarpi's two associates. A few gasps came as they were recognized. It took a while, though, because all eight were beaten and bloodied. One by one, they were walked up against a nearby brick wall. Their name was read, and a black hood was slipped over their head. One tried to escape and received a stock to the head. He was dragged into line, a hood put over his swollen face.

Another six figures came out of the vehicle, carrying the same weapons. The man with his visor up spoke again. "These eight individuals have all been found guilty multiple felonies. They are known members of the Damned street gang. They would destroy you for their own benefit! They must not be allowed to succeed in any way. Continue to stand up to them, fight against them, and know you are not alone."

He then turned to the Damned, lined up against the wall. "You have been found guilty of crimes against the United States of Conner. You have been sentenced to death. Under the Emergency Powers Act, the Strategic Homeland, Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, will carry out your sentence. Attention!"

Eight of the soldiers formed into a line parallel to the Damned, while the others stood guard around them. The man continued. "Ready!" There was a click as safeties were turned off. "Aim!" Some movement as the figures raised their guns. The crowd began to murmur as they realized what was about to happen. "Fire!" The crack of weapons fire filled the air as the eight Damned twitched and fell to the ground. The crowd gasped and yelled, but nobody tried to stop the soldiers as they each grabbed a body and placed them back into the armored vehicle. As the rest of the figures loaded back up, the one with his visor said one more thing. "The control of the Damned will no longer be tolerated. We are here to help you take back your neighborhood. There is hope on the horizon."

He got into the vehicle and it sped off. All that remained was some blood on the sidewalk and the crowds that had been watching. What would happen next, nobody knew. Going to war with the Damned was a death sentence for anyone in the neighborhood, but these people looked like they were ready. Not everyone was confident, though - as the man walked out of the crowd, he heard someone say, "Torresarpi wasn't there."

Someone else responded, "He's untouchable. They won't be able to get him. They grab him, someone comes and hits their family up. He ain't going to be up there soon."

Maybe he was right. Maybe Torresarpi couldn't be touched. The cops knew that, that's why he could walk into the police station and be fine. He had too much power here to be arrested, and especially not hurt.

The next day, when the man came back again, there was an even larger crowd gathered around the shop. After the man squeezed his way to the front of the crowd, he found none other than ... Mario Torresarpi. He had lacerations all over his body, a clearly broken leg and arm, a bloodied face, and a noose around his neck.

He was hanging from a street light.

The lamp was still on - but modified. Cutting into the evening darkness was the symbol from the previous night, one that had never been seen before now - a bird, its talons wrapped around a shield. People around the man were clapping, smiling, crying tears of joy. This was a direct challenge to the Damned's control, but also to the gang control of the poorest Connerian neighborhoods. These people, who saw this as the status quo, saw this symbol and felt something they hadn't felt in a long time. However, for the few Damned in the crowd, they felt something very different.

This was a symbol of hope - but also one of fear.

[United States of Conner]

"Detonation in three, two, one ... ok, that wall has opened up. Are we sure it's secure?"

"Yeah, AI's ran a scan and sim yesterday. We can move in as soon as those support pylons are up, which they appear to be ... yup, we're good."

The first man who had spoken, dressed in work pants, a thick jacket, a hard hat, and industrial boots, stepped out of the back of the mobile command center and steeled himself against the cold. A native of Greenlight himself, where the temperature rarely dropped below freezing, he wasn't exactly a fan of the cold that this part of the country found itself known for. The other man he had been talking to clearly wasn't the same. Wearing nothing but a sweatshirt with the name of some prestigious university buried up here in the tundra and casual jeans, he looked as though he were ready for a brisk fall day, rather than the -20º temperatures outside.

The first man glared at the second as they turned towards their objective. "You're not cold at all, James? You'll get sick, walking around like that."

The second, Doctor James Christi, just chuckled and shook his head. "Mark, when you live up here and spend as much time out and about as I do, your body adapts. I honestly think my body temperature just sits a solid ten degrees below average."

Doctor Mark Forsythe just rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say. Our people are ready?"

"Two excav crews inside, along with the doc team and all that jazz. We're good to go."

The jazz was indeed ready. When the two Doctors had made their way through all the equipment and mobile buildings, they found themselves at the back of a small crowd, huddled around something. They pushed to the front and found a rounded hole, about three meters in any direction, in what appeared to be a sheer cliff. Next to the hole was a woman of about thirty, who promptly extended her hand. Forsythe offered his in return and said, "Dr. Jacobs, I presume?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, Dr. Forsythe. The demolition was successful. We've got assurances from our AIs that the system is structurally sound. As project heads, I figured you two should be the first to enter."

Forsythe and Christi took that as their cue. The two ducked their heads and stepped through the hole.

They quickly found themselves inside a small room. To push back the oppressive darkness, Christi pulled out a large flashlight and turned it on. There was a smattering of rocks from the explosion that had let them in - they hadn't wanted to wait to bring more sophisticated cutting tools out when C4 did the job just as well - but other than that, the room was immaculately maintained. Other than a small part of the other side of the wall, in which a small rectangle of stone had been cut and then replaced, the wall was smooth and flawless. Torches, long since extinguished, hung on the walls.

The room was bathed in light, and the two Doctors turned to see their posse entering behind them. One of the junior scientists had tossed up a few portable lights into the air - plastic balls that used magnetism both to hover in the air and produce light. With the room now fully illuminated, everyone could see the contents of this buried place.

On one side of the room sat a wooden table, on which rested a series of burlap sacks. Upon closer examination, these bags had been filled with dried meat, dehydrated to help it keep longer. Whoever had done this knew their stuff - the meat could probably still be eaten today without consequence. Along with the sacks was a large pitcher of water, some silverware, and a single plate. This alone had triggered Christi's curiosity, and he asked, seemingly to the air itself, "Edin, when was the last time someone was in here?"

A couple seconds later, the gentle female voice of an AI came back, as if from everywhere at once. "Doctor, as far as I can tell, the last person to enter or exit this place was in 1432." That intonation left a bit of awed silence in the room. Masters of the physical world, the Connerians were, and yet still discovering new things every day.

What was of more interest to the two Doctors was what was on the other side of the room. There, the group found a bed, made frugally but carefully. Next to the bed was a cabinet. Upon opening the cabinet - after first scanning it to check for traps, of course - the researchers found a few things of note. A journal, bound with leather; a set of armor, styled in the Luxian style of the mid-1400s; and an odd metal cylinder, with a pair of buttons and a grooved dial. Placing on a pair of gloves, Forsythe - who possessed the best knowledge of the Luxian language of all present - picked up the book and opened it. He would have to bring this back with him for further study at the university, but for now, curiosity was tugging at him. With the researchers gathered around, he began to read.

---

November 19th, 1432

If anyone should read this, I hope you find yourself in a better situation than I. I do suppose that is likely, given my predicament.

This writing, which I do solemnly swear is truthful, at least to the best of my knowledge, is left in the hopes that some future civilization, enlightened and powerful, perhaps the descendants of this one, will find this and know of our situation. How events transpired up to this point.

My name is Tevin, and I am an Eque of the Luxian Empire. For about fifty years, however, that Empire has existed in name only. We have been contained, a once-great civilization pushed back to the brink of extinction. Where our tormenters came from, we know not - those who have voyaged to their homeland, those few that have returned, all swear that it is a place beyond description, one of pure evil, of hellish fire and smoke in which slaves are driven by the hundreds across fields of black rock and brutal Captains rule from atop a throne of skulls. However, the origin of these forces of Darkness has been speculated upon by many scholars, and as a fair amount of their work was saved during the retreat to these mountains, I will refrain from further deliberation on this topic.

They came from nowhere, and everywhere. First, reports came from a few towns in the South and West that groups of barbarians on horseback had ridden in from the coast, ransacking homes and leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake. By the time a force had been dispatched to investigate, they were everywhere.

Here, I shall include a small bit of opinion, if only because I strongly suspect that if we survive this conflict, an effort will be undertaken to purge the dreadful state of readiness held in the years before this invasion from the public memory. It is already so that many alive now do not remember a time before the Iron Wall, before the Darkness, and it will not be long before those like I, those who remember the brutal destruction of much of what our ancestors had built, have gone extinct. Had these forces of Darkness arrived on our shores a hundred, or even two hundred years prior, they would not have made it but twenty kilometers inland. We, though - we had grown fat from strength, and thus were not prepared to combat such enemies who were as hungry, as cunning, and as ruthless as those who came before us. Here I end my editorializing and return to the facts of the matter.

I can still remember my first encounter with these forces of Darkness as a young member of the Army of Light - not three years out of my training, and still without real combat experience. It was in a small town, which shall remain nameless, for I am perhaps the only person alive who remembers it at all, and its name escapes me at present. As our Commanders had officially acknowledged the Darkness invasion perhaps a month prior, we had been put in a state in which we were expected to be prepared to ride for the other side of the Empire on any given day. And so we were, as one day, the order came through to depart for this small town, where a report had been received that this town had fallen to the Darkness. After perhaps a day of travel on horseback, we arrived to find the town ablaze.

We rode into the town, our armor glistening in the light of the flames, as villagers ran and screamed. They pleaded with us to save them, and fell upon their knees upon our entrance, near-worshipping us as saviors. One among us remarked that this worship was uncommon among civilized men, and that something must have happened to provoke such a state. I was about to concur, when I saw the first of them round the corner. He rode upon a horse covered in armor, blackened by combat, and his armor was in a similar condition. He carried a sword, which he rose upon seeing the insignia upon our chests and horses.

His mere presence struck fear into some of our newer forces, but our veteran archers were not so swayed, and the man fell from his dark horse as two arrows pierced his chest. However, his companion, out of view to us, was untouched, and blew his horn to signal the attack to the rest of the forces of Darkness. First, another two rounded the corner, then five, then a hundred, screaming incomprehensibly as a wave of the barbarian forces rushed towards us without logic or reason. Our archers defeated as many as they could, but they could not stem the tide alone, and so we rode into battle, slashing down at the horde from atop horseback.

My sword was bloodied almost instantly upon reaching the crest of the wave, as two of the barbarians dropped to their knees, mortally wounded. I paid them no mind, however - to prevent shock, I believe, I had gone into an almost trance-like state, as had many of my fellows. We hacked away, cutting them down, and still more came. Eventually, fatigue set in, and affected our ability greatly. I was one of the last still on horseback when I felt a tug on my leg. A second later, I fell, and hit the ground hard. Only the sheer instinct to swing my sword out saved me, as I felt my blade connect with the bone of a knee. This strike gave me time to find my footing and deliver a fatal blow to the devil who had grabbed me.

As soon as I had finished him, my head began to spin. I had hit it hard upon the ground, and now I walked through the middle of the battle in a daze. With both sides so focused on the battle, they did not see my stumble away, through the streets of the town, to where I eventually collapsed.

I awoke later with a start. I had lapsed in and out of consciousness in what had been, by my estimate, at least a day. It was a wonder I had not been found, by our forces or the enemy's. When I found the strength to stand, I forced myself to my feet, to find myself at the gates of Darkness itself. The town had almost completely burned to the ground, and the bodies of the soldiers of Light and Darkness shared a final resting place. Here, due likely to the trauma of the sight, I find many gaps in my memory, and as to not provide a false account, I shall skip forward a few hours. I had left the village at this point, and was walking through the countryside. I hoped to find a Luxian outpost, of any sort, that could help me get back to my station. Instead, I came over the top of a hill to find a mass of soldiers on horseback, riding towards me. I felt fear, for a second, upon seeing their black armor, before realizing instead that these were the elite forces of our Empire. Overcome with emotion, I dropped to my knees. Upon recognizing me, they provided me with a horse to ride back to an Imperial outpost, where I made my way back to my base.

It was at this time, when I saw those elite riders that had never in the history of the Empire been deployed in such numbers, that I knew that these forces of Darkness were no minor threat. In fact, it was the first time I had seen them in combat at all. Any uneducated observer could see where this conflict was going. With the fear of the hordes rushing down that village street still in mind, I kept my personal belongings in a state of preparation, such that I could move without warning, in case the plague reached my location.

Within a couple months, my foresight paid me tenfold. For about five weeks, at that point, functions of the government that had been uninterrupted for decades or centuries had begun to falter. Though it had not been confirmed, it was suspected that the Empire had brought its full force to bear upon the forces of Darkness, and thus had not been able to keep up other vital services. Eventually, the day came when the order arrived, signed by the First Consul himself, along with the rest of the Council. We were to begin to ride North and East, until we could reach a northern peninsula. Furthermore, we were to not bring any civilians with us or even inform them of our departure. This last portion of the order caused chaos and discord among our ranks, and provoked a debate on whether or not we could morally obey, before our commanders assured us that any who wished to stay could do so, at the cost of the revocation of their membership in the Army of Light.

With this price laid before us, near everyone complied. The next day, we rode North. As we crossed the country, we rendezvoused with other units, such that when we reached our destination, we were perhaps 50,000 strong. As we arrived, a long shadow was cast over us. The shadow of the Iron Wall. This massive structure, cutting through plains that perhaps three months prior were uninterrupted, stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. I thought then that this must have cost the Empire untold amounts, though whether this price was paid in a financial or moral burden, I know not.

It had almost been completed then, and was perhaps a week away from becoming impenetrable. I know now that we entered through one of the last large openings in the wall, and that most of the rest of the line was already finished. Again, here, I must proceed, mindful that I possess a limited amount of time, ink, and paper, and that this part of history is already well documented, and likely already known by any person reading this. I will thus move forward to the present day.

The situation is grim, there is no denying this. Yet, I feel more hope now than I have in years past. Once behind the Iron Wall, we set instantly about regrouping. I learned upon crossing the line that the First Consol, and the Council itself, that had signed a retreat order, was, in fact, a group of leaders in the Army of Light. Frustrated by a lack of response to the barbarian invasion of our shores, this group arrested the legitimate Consol and took control of the Imperial government. Despite the illegality and immorality of their actions, I can safely say that without them, we would not have made it this far as a nation. I have near all of my adult life in this place, and without this martial government, long ago would the barbarians would have overflowed our dams, had we been able to construct the Wall in the first place.

I write now because it seems likely that within the next year, perhaps two, there will be a grand offensive. Either we retake our homeland, or we embrace extinction, and Darkness falls over the last beacon of Light in this world. Should we emerge victorious, if our Light is strong enough, if we drive the horde from our borders back to the sea from whence they came, then my writing is irrelevant. Surely, the tale of our retreat and return shall become legend, one that none shall ever forget.

If we should fail, however, in our undertaking, it is almost certain that we will no longer be able to defend our Enclave. In this case, the horde will come to finish what it started, and none of us will escape the fate that met so many of our fellows. Thus, I give this account of our history, and leave it here, where it will not be found by the forces of Darkness. My hope is that any civilization that succeeds ours will be so advanced as to be able to discover my own personal Enclave. I have left a number of clues within this mountain that the Darkness will not be able to detect, but I hope will aid discovery of this place in the future. Though I cannot hope to predict the tools of the next generation, let alone those further into the future, it is better to do something than nothing.

Finally, I leave with this book a set of armor, and my weapon from my time on the Iron Wall. It is a fantastic weapon, one the likes of which I never could have conceived. I cannot possibly hope to explain its operation - few can, and those who can are kept under constant guard, to keep its secret safe - I have seen it cut through flesh and metal as though they were water. For the one who finds it, take it up, in the ways of the Eque. Use it to strike fear into the heart of the Darkness, and, should it still exist, drive the infection back to the space between, back to the depths.

With this, I depart. I plan to ride into battle, despite my age, and aid in the battle of the Light against the Darkness. Though I cannot fight as I once could, to lay down my life for the Light is a fitting end for my story; indeed, it is a far better thing than any I have ever done.

Praise be to the Light.

Tevis, Eque of the First Order of the Army of Light

---

The room was dead silent as Forsythe finished reading the entry. Slowly, but surely, all eyes turned to the mysterious metal cylinder, lying upon the shelf, almost inviting. It had been over six hundred years since it had last been touched.

Every person inside had heard the legends. Knights in shining armor, riding on horseback, wielding swords of pure light as they struck blows against the darkness. Common knowledge by now, however, was that those legends were nothing more than myths, propagated by a victorious Luxian Empire looking to cement its power in the uncertain period after its defeat of the barbarian horde. Could it be that those myths weren't so mythical after all?

Could this be what they thought it might be?

Slowly, disregarding almost all proper archeological procedures, Forsythe reached for the cylinder. The object sat lightly in his grasp, almost surprisingly light for its size and composure. The veteran researcher hesitated for a second before reaching for one of the knobs on the side of the cylinder and turning it.

There was a stutter, a crisp pop, and then a loud hum filled the room. Forsythe, his face bathed in light, turned to Christi and grinned. Christi grinned back.