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Post by Fish on Aug 29, 2020 3:15:04 GMT -5
Does Valerie know anything else about you? Can she give you some information on who you are? She seems to know a whole lot about everything, at least!
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Post by Eversor on Aug 29, 2020 11:56:42 GMT -5
Good news, all the weird feedback is gone!
Also I think yah, we should see what Valerie knows about us, since we know very little currently.
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Post by kaninchen on Aug 29, 2020 18:39:33 GMT -5
"So... who am I?"
<You are Pat Summers, serial code v1201. You are the first of your kind, the beginning of twelve-hundred other specimens.>
"S... Specimens?"
<You were created.>
"By who? And for what?"
Valerie hums again. Your eyes dart around the hall, slowly getting accustomed to the darkness. You spot bullet holes in the wall, and a few empty bullet casings that glint in the lightning.
<I apologize. Much of my memory is partially wiped or corrupted. I may be able to restore it, but it will take time and experience.>
"Experience?"
<Yes. Much like how a child's brain gains connections based on their experiences, I might be able to 'bridge the gap', as the saying goes, and reconnect old memories to new ones.>
"Right... right, that makes sense," you lie. You shuffle ever-closer to the open door. "So how do I get experience?"
<Staying alive is the first priority from which all others stem from. You cannot gain experiences while dead. You mentioned a shooter?>
"Yeah, from across the road. The holes their bullets left behind... I don't want to see them in me, that's for sure."
<You are not going to like the next thing I say.>
Ah, great. As if anything thus far has been wonderful to see or hear. You inch ever closer to the open room at the end of the hall, tip-toeing around the blood trail. "Just... say it."
<A sniper using a large-caliber firearm from an elevated position is your biggest threat, and also possibly your one way out of this city. Sniper positions tend to be well-stocked with supplies, and the fact that they were waiting to fire at you may suggest a willingness to stay for long periods of time. They likely have food and potable water, medical supplies, and ... while I do not wish to get your hopes up, possibly a radio or a means of escape.>
"So what you're saying is..." you press your back up against the wall. The doorway is right next to you.
<The hunted must become the hunter.>
You peek your head in. The room is cloaked in shadow, the blood trail snaking into inky blackness. Then, lightning flashes.
There are two bodies, each slumped against the wall. The blood trail leads to the one on the left, who has severe wounds to their lower body. They must have been dragged in here by someone. Possibly the other person... but they're both dead. Their clothes are ragged and stained.
{Content Warning: Implied Suicide }Bullet holes, clean through the temple. The body on the right has a revolver resting in their limp hand. There is no terror on their faces, just resigned acceptance.
And above them, as lightning flashes again, you see words.
THE HEADHUNTERS ARE HERE GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN IF YOU HAVE TO DIE DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HEAD INTACT
Scrawled in blood. Fresh, still dripping slightly. You notice the fingers of the man holding the revolver. They're soaked in blood, as though he wrote the message himself. And it's not all you see. All across the walls, even on the floor and ceiling, are more words...
help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help
You pull your head out, breathing heavily. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Valerie hums.
<Would you like another dose of depressants?>
You shake your head. "No... No, I'll be fine. I just..." you trail off, not sure what to say next. One hand grips the pistol tightly, the other runs down your face as you think. Okay, think, think...
You peek your head back in. Lightning flashes. You see the bodies, and the warning on the wall, but all the 'help' writing is gone. You lean back out, slumping against the wall slightly. You bite your lip in thought.
"Am I going crazy, Valerie?"
<I don't know how to answer that, Miss Summers.>
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Post by Fish on Aug 29, 2020 19:09:20 GMT -5
It sounds like your mental state is a bit rough right now. It's just a thing. You could try and see if there's anything salvageable left here that you could take with you. Maybe a bag would be useful? A backpack?
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Post by Eversor on Sept 1, 2020 0:19:43 GMT -5
>You need something to focus on, a song? maybe a trinket that can get you into a calm spot.
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Post by kaninchen on Sept 2, 2020 15:26:10 GMT -5
Okay, breathe. Calm down. Focus. Maybe there's something in that room that can be helpful. Surely they have supplies. You take in a deep breath, preparing yourself. Once more into the breach.
You slip back into the room, instinctively avoiding eye contact with the bodies.
The glow of your arm screen is enough to see in the room, occasional lightning notwithstanding. Sure enough, you can spot the straps of a backpack on one of the two dead men. A cold chill runs down your spine. Are you really about to do this? Maybe you can wave it off as 'they don't need it anymore', but... the blood around the gunshot wound is still coagulating. So soon after their death, and you're looting them.
As gingerly as you can, you attempt to remove the backpack from the body. Their arms are limp and heavy, and you can't help but feel a knot in your stomach as you contort their arms. Their skin is still slightly warm to the touch. Another chill goes down your spine.
The moment the backpack is off, the body slumps forward, nearly knocking into you. You barely hold back a scream, though you're not sure you would have even heard it over the sound of blood rushing in your ears and your heart beating like a jackhammer. You jump backwards, and the body remains still.
<There are no life signs from them. They will not attack you. You are safe.>
"I... I know, Valerie. It's just..." you let out a shaky breath, looking away from the scene. There isn't anything else in the room, other than the revolver, but you don't know if you have the guts to take that too.
You quickly leave the room and lean against the hallway wall, opening the backpack. A few assorted batteries, a small key-chain folding knife, and a half-empty bottle of water. Either their actual cache of supplies is somewhere else, or they were woefully under-prepared. Or both.
You zip the backpack back up and put it on. At least you can carry things more effectively now.
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Post by Eversor on Sept 2, 2020 16:37:39 GMT -5
Supplied up and ready to go!
>maneuver past them gingerly, moving forward in a calmer state then you've been in. See what lies down ahead.
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Post by Fish on Sept 3, 2020 1:03:54 GMT -5
There were sheets in the other room, right? Get one of those and bring it back to the deceased. You can't bury them, but you might feel better if you're able to shroud them and give them some dignity in death.
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Post by kaninchen on Sept 4, 2020 0:32:56 GMT -5
More images flash through your mind. Graves, bodies, tombs, ditches, piles of dirt, burials. "I'm gonna go ... go back. And get the sheets. I'll cover them up."
<This has no direct benefit to your survival.>
"I know. But I can't just leave them here like this."
Valerie hums, almost in an amused tone.
<I see. Very well, if it will calm your conscience, then by all means do it. Be sure to avoid being shot. The stairs at the end of the hallway are still operational.>
"Right."
You walk down the hall, using your arm-light to show the way. Empty brass casings clink against your feet. The bullet holes in the wall let a few flickers of your arm-light through, creating temporary glimpses into abandoned nothingness. The sign above the stairwell states "FLOOR 2". Below, a watery grave. Above, shrouds for the dead. You head upwards.
The hallway on Floor 3 is much like the one below, though lacking the blood trail. The door of the room you were in is still open. A large chunk is missing from the door, which swings lazily in the wind. Howling wind, from the smashed window. You put your back up to the wall, edging up to the doorframe, and carefully peek inside.
It's like how it was before, though with glass shards on the floor. Piles of clothes, wrinkled bed sheets on the fold-out couch, and the various trinkets you scavenged from the kitchenette.
<I would say that this is reckless, foolish, and likely to get you killed... and I will. This is reckless, foolish, and likely to get you killed. But your dedication to giving an impromptu burial for two people who will never be able to thank you speaks greatly of your integrity. I approve from a moral standpoint, but not from a safety one.>
"Thanks, Val."
Deep breaths.
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Post by Fish on Sept 4, 2020 1:16:33 GMT -5
It's always good to do what you think is right!! Get some of those sheets and give them as decent of a shroud as you can! Besides, you're getting to see more of this location. That sort of knowledge has to be useful.
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Post by Eversor on Sept 4, 2020 8:50:32 GMT -5
>Valerie activate Moral protocols, supercede safety blocks. We are going to do this right!
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Post by kaninchen on Sept 4, 2020 15:16:16 GMT -5
Another burst of lightning, and you spot a glint outside the window, across the street. The sniper is still there, but they haven't spotted you peeking through the door. You glance at the floor. Maybe if you crawl, they won't spot you.
You get on your stomach and crawl in, taking care to brush away any glass in your path. So far, so good. You slip your backpack off and unzip it, shuffling to the table. You wait for lightning.
A flash.
Nothing happens.
The moment it's dark again, you sweep your hand up and across the table, knocking all the supplies you found to the ground. The utility box, can of soda, bottle of alcohol, knife, bottles of water, beef jerky, and crank flashlight. You shove it all into your backpack, though you keep the knife so the next time you stuff your hand in your bag, you don't get a sharp surprise.
Once you've gathered everything, you pause and wait again. Your heart is beating right out of your chest. An eternity passes. Cold air from the broken window washes over you, but you don't dare move, not even a shiver, lest the sniper see you.
Lightning.
Nothing.
You scramble over to the fold-out bed and remove as many sheets and blankets as you can, bundling them up under your arm. You pull your backpack over your shoulder, grab your gun and knife awkwardly with your free hand, and bolt out of the room. There's a muffled pop, and a chunk of the wall nearby is turned to splinters. But it's too late for the sniper, as you're already in the safety of the darkened halls.
Your heart is still beating, and your face slightly damp from the moist wind.
<Excellent. Good thinking on staying low.>
"It's the least I could do," you reply.
<Was that sarcasm?>
You're not sure, to be honest. You jog to the stairwell, shrouds in tow, thump-thump-thump down the stairs, and head to the scene of death. The bodies are still there. You're not certain whether this is good or bad. Maybe if they weren't there, you could brush this off as a bad dream. But the corpses lie still, waiting patiently for you.
Carefully, you tug on their feet to pull them from their sitting position, lying them down on the floor. Your stomach squirms, but you pull their legs straight and put their arms at their sides. More images flash through your head. Death, shrouds, burials, bodies. Yes, of course. Their eyes, frozen in a stare up at nothing. You close them. Rest now, o weary eyes, that your gaze into blackness becomes a limitless sleep in the void.
<You are putting much care and thought into this. I am surprised.>
"It's just... the right thing to do. I don't know how to explain it."
<Hm.>
You unfold the sheets from under your arm and lay them out over the bodies. They flutter slowly, obscuring the two forms. Something still doesn't feel right. Before, yes, they were awful to look at, but they were people. Who are they now? Vague lumps under a dirty stained sheet? What were their names? Their stories? Their goals, and reasons for being here? Who will remember them?
More images flash through your mind. Gravestones, eulogies, obituaries. These thoughts, obtrusive and unwanted, but relevant and needed. Every flash of an image is another layer of innocence stripped away.
You look at the pool of blood on the ground. It's still somewhat wet, though clumpy. You kneel down, open your bag, and pour out some of the half-empty water bottle onto the blood to get it moist again. Then, you dip your finger into it. Upon the sheet, you begin to write. And as you get to the last few letters, you pause.
"What year is it?"
<It is...>
Valerie then crackles. It isn't her usual hum of thought, but something different.
<It is... 1350 XE by my estimates. Apologies, my internal clock was somewhat damaged by the corrupted memory errors. I do believe that remembering the date has fixed some memories, however. Why do you ask?>
You do not respond, and finish what you are writing. You stand.
REST IN PEACE TWO UNKNOWN SOULS ?? -- 1350 XE
<I see.>
You say nothing. What is there to be said? The silence of the bodies is far louder than any words you could utter.
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Post by Eversor on Sept 5, 2020 17:57:47 GMT -5
>Silence become broken, by some outside force.
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Post by knightlygale on Sept 7, 2020 14:52:13 GMT -5
I'LL JUST SAY RIGHT NOW, VALERIE IS MY WIFE
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Post by knightlygale on Sept 7, 2020 15:03:28 GMT -5
There are happy things too, that existed. People would have parties to celebrate the lives of the dead.
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