Sorry for the delay. I've been preoccupied with helping out at the Castle event. Lot's to do! Anywho, without further ado, here are the first two chapters. I'd like to thank Old Greg (Greg Castles player) for help providing character insight and writing the skeleton of what you see in the Greg chapter 1.
If you want it in Word form for easier reading, PM me.
Jon
I am a hopelessly inquisitive man. My name is Jon Samuels and I am a writer, philanthropist, theoretical physicist, politician, but above all I am the epitome Man. I am an artist, a Renaissance Man, during an age where art is irrelevant. I am the ruler of a Kingdom, but I do not wish the title of King nor God. Such a title alienates my people, all of whom are my friends, family, my children. I take care of them because no one else would nor do I believe anyone has the skill. Our family lives in Precinct-3, our Kingdom, a private sanctuary that I have made to exist in symbiosis with the Union. Before me, this place was an unruly slum, plagued with hedonism and child pornography and exploitation. Now it is under my arms. The Union celebrates nor condemns my achievement, they simply allow us to be.
"Jon, everything is ready for you," says Chandra Hassan, my young assistant. She stands across from me by the yellowed brick of the train station walls, a grin across her face. Her parents were aid workers during the battle of Mogadishu, serving under the Afghan Army Corps. Those rich brown eyes have seen more horrors before the Seven Hour War than after.
"Thank you, Chandra. I will be ready shortly," I reply while closing my diary and folding it into my back pocket. I stand, place out my arms and she slides them into either sleeve of my tanned trench coat.
She is a good-looking, thin woman. The layers of stun baton marks that dot her dark skin are worn like badges, a matter of pride for a City Forty-Five veteran. A loyal compatriot and smart girl who knows how to order those who want to seem larger than they truly are. Deep pockets line her eyes, a mirror of the life she has seen. From refugee camp to camp, witnessing the worst of human terror. Raised an stout Sunni woman, clinging her burqa to her head hoping to shut out the horrors of the camps. Her mother comforted her with stories of their arid homeland, life in Kabul among three million identical faces she would never see. After the War, Chandra was forced to choose between her faith and her life. She stuck with the latter, but kept the ancient beliefs of equality and honor alive.
Chandra finishes putting my coat on, as I recite phrases from my speech, "The stage is all prepared, everyone gathered. All we need now is a great leader to step up and marvel us," she says with a grin. I smile, giving her a gentle pat on the cheek before we depart.
The lobby in the train station is filled with the citizen blues waiting for their freeze-dried, machine-dispensed nonsense. They glare at us as we pass. Civil Protection choose to ignore us, but they have already tagged our movement before leaving the station.
Outside in the Plaza, the air is heavy with a scorching layer of humidity as Summer approaches in the coming weeks. My nose tightens to the blanket of invisible pollutants emitted by the endless cycle of industry our City Forty-Five is well renowned for. Scanners fly overhead, emitting their bird-like chirps as they snap their bulbous white lights in the eyes of pedestrians. In the middle of the Plaza sits an erected stone monument from the old wars, it's purpose lost, merely serving as a citizen bill post. To the corner of my eye is the looming Nexus, a metallic construct of alien design and origin. Sharp, contoured lines and the ceaseless gaze of Civil Protection outside it's titanium steps contrast the post-World War II era architecture decorating the Plaza's edge. A truly hideous work.
"Ah, the line is not as long tonight," chirps Chandra, "I wouldn't want you to be late, Mr. Jon." She speaks of the Precinct-3 checkpoint. A low-lying barricade stretching across the cobblestone street. Two Civil Protection officers stand on either side of the only visible door through the rib-like barrier wall, their superior officers sounding orders through hidden radios of anti-citizen activity and ration distribution. We pass through, they do not bother to frisk me nor my companion.
"Tell 032 I send my regards," I tell the shorter of the two officers, before strolling through my Kingdom's Gatehouse.
"It feels good to be home," Chandra remarks as we pass into my Kingdom. The Kingdom of Jon, Precinct-3.
"Yes, it does. Now, I have a speech to deliver my dear Chandra," we enter the dimly-lit tunnel, down the snaking concrete tomb.
Greg
I did not enjoy the luxury of a train ride into the city like other blues did, not that I was like other blues. Then again, I wasn't exactly similar to a blue in any way. In fact, if I had been whisked away to another time period some might call me a Holocaust survivor. Heh, I guess we're all holocaust survivors. The thought only stuck in my mind for a moment before I was brutally ripped back into reality. It was the sun. It won't allow me to think under its piercing, hazy gaze, taunting me like a hanging demon in the sky, hiding behind it's impenetrable wall of smog. It wasn't particularly hot, but that damned sun! It steals your energy, never returns it. It allows us to live on this planet, but mocks us from a hundred million miles away. I hate the fucking sun.
My attention drifted back to the pack of emaciated zombies I was marching with. "More of a collective stumble, than a march," I thought.
The group seemed to drift aimlessly in a direction, any direction. I gasped, pulling in a ragged breath as panic shook my body momentarily. My eyes darted around looking for a recognizable face, all I found were the emotionless and broken faces of those who had suffered as I had.
"I'm going to die here. They will pull me to the side and BLAM! Just like that, my brain across the scorched pavement."
"Hey, I'm behind you. Keep going asshole."
The words eased my panic and I was momentarily filled with the greatest happiness I could remember having. The voice meant I was not alone, that I was not lost. I did not bother responding to the angel behind me, I did not have the energy. I simply shook my head slowly as to acknowledge his presence. The happiness left me, the sun once pulling me back to its reality, my punishment.
Our group came to a hill the color of burnt flesh and we began to climb. Someone next to me muttered something which caught my attention. In fact, when I raised my head I noticed everyone around me slowly drifting their attention to the sky.
"Rain!" someone in the crowd choked out.
The violet, heavy clouds seemed to hover just on the other side of the hill, inviting us to get away from the sun. A spark of urgency seemed to spread through the group who had long ago given up on the concept of relief. The blasted faces around me seemed to come alive, a few muttered words went around. We were no longer a dead, mindless people, marching through the River Acheron.
As we crested the hill and gathered at the top, our optimism was plucked by the sky. The violent clouds were not clouds of rain, but of smog that hovered over a city that was caught in an eternal darkness. Silence overcame us as a few cried out desperate pleas in agony at that omnipotent jester in the sky.
"Keep moving!"
The most piercing of fears gripped me for a moment. I had forgotten that even here, even on this march, I was still under their constant watch. Our dozen masked ferrymen through the wastes, our Charon. The pack slowly picked up their speed as we began to move once more. After a few minutes of marching, loud cracks rang out in the distance behind us. Myself and a few others around me turned to find the bodies of almost a dozen of our fellow damned lying piled on the top of the hill we just passed. The Overwatch officers who had executed them were quickly marching down the hill to catch up with the group. I turned my attention back towards the front. We damned had begun to relinquish to the hailing sun. Not even a pyre nor word will be shed for those dead, but a feast for the foolish crows who still linger here.
After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived closer to the outskirts of the city, the smog now looming ominously overhead. We were now walking parallel to a railroad that lead into the city. The razor train came quietly from behind, I didn't notice it at first. Then it surged past me, the jet of air it created almost knocking me to the ground. In tow came another train, this one older, more human. Ancient by Combine standards. I looked up at it and momentarily saw the same dead faces peering out of the windows back at me, the lost ones on the burnt hill. They all look the same to me; despairing, bored, lost. What did the blues think of us as they passed? A decomposing lot of freaks, outcasts, criminals, rebels, anti-citizens, pedophiles and queers?
Finally, we had arrived at our destination, City Forty-Five. The Ferrymen dropped us off at the train station, before turning and sailing back out into the Underworld to escort the virgin damned.
"Keep going asshole," I mumbled to myself.
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