Trapped

[Pwenet]

Prologue - Part I: The Changing of the Guard (Pwenet)
Location: R.C. Super-Hauler NOS-426 “Space – The Final Fontier. These are the voyages of the”

Waving his hand to end the playback of the old-Earth vid Marcus rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs wearily. It was almost time for his shift to end, and not a moment too soon. The food sucked, the entertainment was boring, and he was tired of talking to the other five people on-duty with him. At least it gave him time to work on his writing, which was stalling at the moment. However the changes he made to his dating profile for “findamate” search never looked better.

Still it was not all bad. The extended duty pay was great and the shore leave afterwards would last at least half a year if he wanted. Still he was not getting any younger, at 34 bio-years old his thoughts during the dark twilight hours were of settling down, finding a wife and contributing to the growing population of one of humanities colonies.

Hearing a gear turning, Marcus swivels his chair around in time to see the aft-hatch to the C&C opening and Kurt entering, sipping at a water-bottle and looking exhausted.

“Enjoyed your nap I see.”

“Don’t remind me, the goggles say that cold sleep is just as refreshing as real sleep but they are full of it. Should you not be changing.”

“I didn’t feel like getting ready for the freezer yet. Plus I was making sure our course was solid. We had to fire off the engines three days ago.”

“Why? We are in the void, there should be nothing.”

“R.C. sent a bulletin two months ago, apparently an old E.L.P.S. found a moving asteroid cluster which may intersect with the Beta-5 Beaumonde flight-path. Don’t worry, the computer is finishing up the verification of the correction and we should be clear of it.”

“Good, I don’t want us to get hulled because we didn’t adjust correctly. Clayton will be waking up in another couple of hours, you should get yourself suited up and secured. Extra O2 burnt comes out of your paycheck if you are still awake. We still on track for another FTL jump next week right?”

“Yeah, the engines have cooled off and the radiation buffers are clear again. I had the computers work on refining the jump protocols a little more, we might be able to shave another week off however with our course correction that may be lost. You can fudge around with the numbers. Ready to take control.”

“Yeah, I might as well get started. See you after the next jump.”

Reaching towards the central console Marcus pulls out his I.D. card and resets the console. Letting Kurt take the chair he watches as Kurt logs onto the system and starts reviewing the logs. Looking around the C&C it looks distressingly empty, which was normal for this leg of the trip, 32 Real-Months out with another 87 Real-Months remaining. Still for a ship travelling 27 light-years on this leg of the trade route it was better than if they were stuck solely with sub-light.

The small cramped corridors were just tall enough to allow Marcus to walk through, the lights activating and deactivating as he pass through. His 14 Bio-Years on ships like this one had conditioned him to ignore it, though a small part of him was always disturbed it, probably a natural human tendency to fear the dark. Yet that was a fact of life for the life he choose at an age of 18 and for the most part he never regretted it.

Reaching his destination he started to shiver as he entered. Looking at the lockers he sees Carmella finish securing her jumpsuit.

“Too late for the show?”

Looking over at him Carmella smiled slyly at him. The past month was interesting between the two although he knew at the end of the journey they would part ways to never hear from each other again.

“You only wish you would get a show. Ugh I hate this part, why can’t they get these cursed things more comfortable.”

Pulling open his locker Marcus started to pull off his duty clothes and started changing into his sleepwear.

“At least these ones don’t require a cool-down period. One of my first ones was an old Taim-Burke model 2, those things took a day to cold-cycle you and if you were so uncomfortable that sleeping was nearly impossible.”

“I remember those. My old skipper would give out a shots of old-Earth brandy to anyone entering cold sleep. Of course by shot he would give out a full glass. You hurt like hell once you woke up but at least you could sleep during the cool-down phase.”

“Are you two done whining over there? Clayton is awaking soon and I don’t want to be on report for having burnt too much O2 during the week.”

Marcus and Carmella rolled their eyes as the voice of Lance echoed around the corner. Finishing getting dressed they passed through an open hatch into the next chamber where Lance was working on one of the 70 cyro-statis pods set up in rows of 6 back to back. Looking at the unit Marcus say the form of Clayton steaming at the chamber slowly warmed back up. Two other chambers were open with information flashing on the holo-screens. Carmella sighed loudly as she climbed into her chamber while Marcus looked at the readouts for Clayton.

“How is the probie doing? This is his first thaw after all?”

“So far everything is in the green. I’ve already rigged the readout over there to read a date 200 years in the future.”

Carmella scoffs at that and yells out.

“That’s it? A doctor on a ship I sailed on my first time moonlighted as a stage actor, even had makeup. He did up his face with old-fart makeup right before I woke up. I swear that gave me a few grey hairs. Of course after I found out the truth the bruises he wore took a few weeks to go away.”

Shaking his head Marcus climbed into his cyro-statis pod while Lance came over and checked over Carmela. With deft hands, which said a lot considering one of them was brushed metal, he secured her in the pod and started to gently insert the IV’s into her before getting the mask and goggles ready.

“Alright Carmella, you know the drill. Open wide deep breath, now exhales.”

Deftly getting the mask on her fact as she breathed out and securing the goggles Lance plugs in the various sensors on the sleepwear into the pod and closes the chamber to it to the sounds of ominous hissing as it sealed.

“There she goes, nice and quietly. I tell you this part is always the fun one.”

“Don’t tell me you get a rise out of this Lance?”

“Don’t you?”

Before he could retort, Lance comes over to Marcus and inserts the IV’s into his arms. Glaring in pain he grunts as they are inserted. Once the IV’s are secured Lance pulls down the face mask.

“Here we go, no more talking back from you. Breath in, deep breath, now exhale.”

Exhaling Marcus feels the cold plastic brush against his face, the auto-intubater snaking it’s way down his throat into his lungs. Next came the goggles which turned the world an ugly shade of blue as the lid to the cyro-stasis pod came closing down. Hearing the hisses as the pod sealed itself Marcus waited. Already he was felt consciousness starting to slip away as the drugs went about their jobs in his bloodstream, preparing his body for the stasis. Thoughts started to fall apart, memories flashed by him. Thank goodness the cyro-stasis after long periods of time killed the human ability to dream. He hated his dreams when he had them, they always were of….

A dim jolt of adrenaline shakes through his system. Wondering why he felt something shiver before an arcing flash of cold washed over him…….

Prologue - Part II: Echoes of Destiny (Inspectre)
Location: UnknownAs control of the ship again changes hands in the unending duty cycle for the crew, deep within the ship’s computer a subroutine is triggered. Activated by the ship’s most recent course correction, the subroutine races through the deepest levels of the ship’s central computer. As it goes it uses various other installed backdoors to evade notice by the computer’s security protocols. Taking control of the ship’s communication array, the subroutine feeds a set of pre-determined coordinates into it, along with a simple five-second long tonal message. The subroutine activates the array, sending the message out into space, and then deletes all log entries that a message was ever sent.

The first part of its assignment complete, the subroutine moves on to the second part – feeding a new set of coordinates into the ship’s navigation system. Without the “necessary” course-correction made previously, this new set of coordinates would have been out of range of the ship’s jump drives and rejected out of hand by the navigation computer. But now, the next time the ship made a jump, it would find itself in a VERY different location than its pilot intended. After the coordinates are accepted and locked into place, the subroutine again deletes all log entries of its work. And then finally, it deletes itself, removing the last bit of proof that there was ever anything wrong with the ship’s computer. Any unfortunate events that now befell the ship would be blamed entirely upon the crew.

In deep space, at the coordinates given to the communication array, a ship awaits. Completely powered down, the ship appears to be lifeless, just a floating piece of space debris like the asteroid it is attached to. But there is just enough power flowing to this ship’s own communication array that it receives the brief tonal transmission sent its way. Upon receiving the signal the communication array activates the ship’s computer. It takes only a moment for the computer to verify the signal – no modern communications used the sequence of clipped notes once known on Earth as a dial tone. This was indeed the signal it had been waiting for.

The entire ship shudders slightly as its reactor core, its heart, restarts and begins to pump out energy once more. The ship comes slowly back to life as system after system comes online. The ship’s computer begins running diagnostics on each system to ensure they are fully functional. Meanwhile, it sends a signal racing into the deepest and most heavily protected part of the ship. There, a single cyro-stasis pod awaits, waiting either for this signal or for another fifteen real years to pass. The signal gets there first, and the cyro-stasis pod begins to cycle through its thawing phase. An old Taim-Burke model 2, it would take most of a day to finish. Within the pod, soft music begins to play as the pod’s occupant slowly begins to awaken. A recording of a female voice addresses the occupant.

“Wake up, dear. It’s time to get to work.”

Universe 'Snippits'Redemption Corporation Advertisement to Colony System ATE-254 - New Haven”Are you afraid for your loved ones?”

“Do you feel that your officials are protecting you from those that would do you harm properly?”

“Are you angry that convicted criminals run free because of overcrowding prisoners? Is your colony unable to fund a rehabilitation center for criminals due to low budgets? Are you scared that violent offenders will escape the justice system to harm you and your family?”

“As you may be aware the Redemption Corporation is currently in negotiations with your government to assist with the segment of your population who cause social unrest and harm their community.”

“What is the Redemption Corporation? We are a humanity-driven corporation, formed from the ashes of the last Earth World War, dedicated to uplifting humanity to a brighter future. With divisions working on improving the quality of life, one of our business areas is help people who harm humanity, healing them and turning them into productive members of society.”

“In systems which take advantage of our services, once a criminal is convicted in a court of law, we provide cryogenic suspension services and store them in one of our centers in planetary orbit. Once a year one of our ships will pick up all convicted criminals for transport to a distant system at the edges of known space to serve humanity in reparation for their crimes. At the end of their system they are returned to a new system where they are be mandated by law to continue to serve the community, with a reasonable portion of their income going to the local community and the Redemption Corporation so that we may help uplift others.”

“Imagine now, no more prisons on your planet. Our rates are far lower than what the costs would be for your system to build and maintain prison facilities, which means lower taxes for you! With the amount of time it takes for travel to other systems you will be assured that the criminals we take away for rehabilitation will never bother you and your loved ones again.”

“So please, help yourself to aid in the uplifting of humanity and contact your local politicians. Tell them you want to have the Redemption Corporation bring humanity to a bright future!”

“Don’t believe the lies! When has the Redemption Corporation ever returned one of their “prisoners” from one of their rehabilitation planets? In fact where are these planets located? They refuse to publicly release the location to “protect us” however I say they are death planets! Slave labor at it’s finest! Demand the truth from this faceless corporation!”

- Blog posting for Arthur Wildes - Convicted of incitement to riot in the capital of New Haven - Sentenced 2368 - Shipped via Redemption Corporation 2369 for rehabilitation

”My father was killed by a junkie high on dust. I’m glad that he is off serving humanity as payment for his crimes and that we will never see him again in our lifetime! Thank you Redemption Corporation.”

- Anonymous Citizen - 2370

”The fact of the matter is, the exporting of our less desirable citizens thanks in part to the Redemption Corporation has led to a decrease in taxes, a happier community and a general sense of safety. That is why I support the motion to allow the Redemption Corporation to work with the armed forces to handle their rehabilitation of military personal who turn to criminal acts.”

- President of the United Terran Federation - Signing of the “Uplifting Accords” - 2371

Press Release - New Systems Ready for Colonization - 2375
The Redemption Corporation is please to announce that recent deep-space probes have identified systems suitable for human settlement. These systems have conditions that are near-old-Earth and dedicated scientists have been examining them in detail to ensure that there are no surprises for colonists.

“Unlike the original U.T.F. colony programs and the unfortunate fate of New Amsterdam, we have dedicated ourselves to a meticulous examination of any systems where humanity can settle. We are please to announce that these three systems, each on the edge of known space, are ready for human habitation. We are looking for volunteers, people ready for an experience of a lifetime to join in the uplifting of humanity and become the first generation of colonists on these planets.”

New Amsterdam, settled in 2104 was sadly the victim of an biological contagion which killed 98% of the colonists. By the time rescue ships arrived one year later only 72 colonists survived. To this day New Amsterdam is a quarantined planet, with the Redemption Corporation working diligently to bring the planet to a state suitable for human habitation.

[Pwenet]

Dramatic Persona - Part 1

ArkiveD.I.S MAXIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY
EYES ONLY
DO NOT COPY UNDER PENALTY OF INCARCERATION
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Designation: Blue/Iota
Prisoner Number: B379-28135
Name: Dubar, Scott
Aliases: Junk, Tr4shM4n29, InDubit4b1y761, UniMi55in9
Age: 23
Blood Type: B+
Height: 1.65 m
Weight: 85.97 Kg
Eye Color: Brown
GenMod: N
MechMod: Y
Sentence: Incarceration, indefinite
Distinguishing Marks: Modular, mechanical left arm.
Threat Assessment: Prisoner is physically unimposing but competent at overcoming computer security. Left arm removed for safety.
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Convictions:
Computer Fraud (34 Counts)
Identify Theft (12 Counts)
Malicious Computer Intrusion (21 Counts)
Virtual Vandalism (48 Counts)
Cyber Terrorism
Conspiring Acts of Cyber Terrorism
Resisting Arrest
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Personal History: Underpriviledged background. Inherited the family business: a scrap yard. Did minor mechanical and computer repairs on the side. Repaired and modified his own mechanical augmentations with whatever he could scavenge. Never having the chance to leave his home planet, learned of the 'verse through digital means. Joined up with a group of cyber-vigilantes, dedicated to exposing government and military secrets.

Personal Profile: Possible paranoid personality disorder: guarded, suspicious, and generally distrustful. A conspiracy theorist. Enjoys mechanics, electronics, and hacking. Dislikes space travel and governments. Judges and respects people based on their actions and abilities.

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Mechanical Augments
Shoulder - Interface between biological body and mechanical modules
Arm module - removed radio tranciever, wireless network tranciever
Forearm module - removed general purpose hacking vi, visual display screen
Hand module - removed hardware interfaces, telescopic knife
BelGarethD.I.S MAXIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY EYES ONLY
TIER 2 SECURITY GRADE
DO NOT COPY UNDER PENALTY OF INCARCERATION
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Designation: REMOVED
Prisoner Number: EAEF-44569
Name: Grey, Corbin
Aliases: SteelBird, Grey
Age: 31
Blood Type: O+
Height: 1.7 m
Weight: 65.21 Kg
Eye Color: Red
GenMod: N
Augmented: Y
Sentence: Permanent Cryo-stasis
Distinguishing Marks: Left forearm and thigh tattooed completely red, lower back is criss-crossed with scars (roughly 18 inches long), back/both shoulders tattoo of dragon.
Threat Assessment: Danger threat level Prime++, his military training combined with military limb prosthesis makes him a top priority.
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Convictions
Insubordination
Threatening a Higher ranked Officer
Behavior unbecoming an Officer
Assaulting an Officer
Gross Misconduct
Violating the Laws of War
Violating the Code of Conduct
1st Degree Murder, 274 counts
Gross Misuse of Military equipment
Mass Public Destruction, 1553 counts
Breach of Government Security, 3 counts
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Personal History: Corbin Grey was an accomplished student at the War academy, he graduated top of his class and moved on to flight training where he excelled at fighter pilot school. From there he moved from unit to unit, being the best pilot on each ship. He eventually got recruited for special ops only 4 years in his career. Here he partook on countless black op missions that never took place; he has been commended and awarded dozens of times, even with the highest awards possible. One mission, a simple covert recon went sour and he got shot down and taken hostage, he lost his right arm, right leg and left eye to the enemies. He managed to escape somehow and get back to Command, he later would receive the services highest honor, and sciences highest honor. He was the recipient of a prosthetic arm, leg and eye. This only made him a better pilot, the prosthesis only enhancing his hand eye coordination. His last mission hea######

Military Training: Demolitions, Advanced Demolitions, Survival, Advanced Survival, Arid Survival, Arctic Survival, Space Survival, Pilot school, Top Gun, Pilot Trainer, Avionic Mechanics, Advanced Avionic Mechanics, FTL theory & practice, SL theory & practice, Advanced FTL theory, Basic Weaponry, Ballistic weaponry, Dive school, HALO, LALO, HAHO, LAHO, Combat jump, Basic Space combat.

Personal Profile: Corbin showed very good promise early on in his career, he attained rank very quickly and always strived to be the top gun of his carrier or flight group. He feels little about the special ops he conducted, showing the tell tale signs of TBI and PTSD, his prosthesis helps take care of most of it allowing him to concentrate fully. He holds no grudges for his missing arm, leg and eye. If the recent events had not happened he would still be a good candidate for special forces. He is easy going, but holds a grudge for the man who he says “put him here”.

Additional notes: Corbin has dozens of recommendations and letters of excellence from commanding officers, the Commandant of the UTF was even quoted saying "we're sorry to see him go" in regards to former LT.Col Grey.

Lt. COL Grey's Hearing

Looking out the window he squinted as the ship passed the systems sun; it was bright green and made everything seem somewhat emerald. He sighed and moved through the steps to get dressed, he had always hated wearing his dress uniform, the pomp and circumstance was never enough to warrant having to update it with the appropriate medals and ribbons, the correct rank and service stripes. It had been years since the last time he had worn it, he had had to get it tailored to fit him, and the rank insignia was all wrong. Finally after winning the epic battle of the neck button he looked in the mirror to make sure everything was kosher.

Why am I bothering? He asked himself We all know what’s going to happen, no matter how good I look in this uniform my career is done for. DAMN! He looked back at the mirror and through it seeing distant places and times. No, he thought, I will go out with pride, honor, and integrity.

After securing his cover under his arm he moved to the bulkhead and pounded on the hatch to let the Marine stationed on the other side know he was ready. The door slid open with an almost silent ‘hush’ and Corbin grinned inside as the young Marine MP did a double take at his chest candy. It wasn’t every day Marines go to see the amount of awards and decorations on one man’s chest, some Marines prided themselves on it, but to Lt. Colonel Grey it meant nothing. All his honor, ribbons, medals and rank was about to mean nothing. He stepped forward with the tinkling of the medals hitting each other as he moved through from his quarters to the hearing board.

Marines and Sailors moved past him, some stopped and saluted him whiles others did similar double takes at his uniform. Yet others, more green than the rest stopped with raised eyebrows. They stopped short of the Boards room and he waited for the MP escort to secure the hatch.

The intercom speaker burst forth with some warbled static and then silence as it cut into the microphone feed from the sender. “Go ahead and send the Colonel in.” The MP responded with a curt “Aye sir.” And thumbed the door, registering his unique bio signature to unlock the door allowing him to enter the room. He paused at the precipice of the hatch,

Just go through, this won’t take long!

Walking into the hearing, the generals and Admirals of the fleet looked up, Lt General Grand stood upon his entrance and saluted, the others raised their eyebrows in surprise to what they were seeing. They had seen his file but the significance of Greys awards, specifically the Medal of Honor failed to impress; it’s actually physical presence is enough to make most service members nervous. And as if on cue from one another, each of the board rose and saluted, an awkward silence pervaded the hearing room, until once again Lt. General Grand cut his salute and sat. Grinning and nodding at Grey the whole time, he was a long time Commander of Grey and a good friend.

Senior Rear Admiral Gonzalez coughed and the attention came flooding back to the issue at hand.

“Lieutenant Colonel Grey, you have been charged with a multitude of offenses, of which relate to the most recent incident on Jakeris Prime. You were sent in to secure several documents in regards to the drug cartel and instead went off into the City sector high jacked a Commercial liner and crashed it into a fully housed and populated living hub.” He looks up at Grey from over his reading glasses “The evidence has been reviewed and a verdict has been found.”Something still eludes me though Colonel.” The Admiral says digressing; “What was it you were doing? HOW in the two moons of Siberus did you get so off track?”

Grey stirred “Admiral, with all due respect, I have already testified as to what I was doing. I was following orders.”

The other members of the board murmured at that comment, Lt. General Grand wiped his hands down his face in frustration.

“It pains me to say this to such a highly decorated and outstanding warrior of the UTF, but none of us are above the law. The Kensing Wars were proof of that.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Corbin Grey, You are hereby found guilty by this Military Board of the UTF Command. You are sentenced to be frozen on the penal colony to be determined at a later hearing, your frozen status will remain indefinitely.”

Grey snapped. They hadn’t said anything about being frozen indefinitely!

“WHAT! How dare you! GRAND YOU LIED TO ME!”

Admiral Foster stands and yells: “GUARDS, RETAIN THIS MAN!”

The MP’s come rushing in to take hold of Grey who was about to jump over the banister and throttle everyone in this room. Grey moves the first MP’s grabbing arms to the side and knees him to the face knocking him out, the other guard manages to grab him around the waist and steps into his real leg buckling him down to his knee. Grey throws him down and glares at the senior officers of the board ready to leap at them when he feels the impact of a shock rifle and falls to the floor jerking with electricity rushing through his body. Another MP had come in, rifle up and had shot the Lt. Col.

Senior Rear Admiral Gonzalez was leaning on the table, surprised at what had just happened, he didn’t feel good about what he had to do.
“Get him out of here!”
GorgondantessRosalie Fryer was conceived the old fashioned way: in the back of a car. No genetic screening, no nothing, not even an ultrasound. Her parents were, in a word, hippies. And this was to her detriment.
Rosalie was born not with a congenital disorder, but with congenital disorders. First and foremost, she had Type I osteogenesis imperfecta (OI), producing severely deficient quantities of collagen in her bones. Thus, she was born with most of her bones shattered, limbs mangled. And yet the child hardly let out a sound, seemingly undeterred by the injuries that should have been excruciating. Rosalie was also born with congenital insensitivity to pain (CIP), having generally normal nerves but being incapable of feeling, for the most part, physical injuries.
The CIP was as much a curse as it was a blessing. It gave her a much happier childhood, free of pain, but it also made her more prone to breaks, and sometimes she wouldn't notice a break until it did some severe damage. As she grew older, she grew progressively more bedridden, and more cognizant of her disorder: with this she also became more and more bitter. There were some treatments for her OI, but again, being hippies, her parents could hardly afford anything but the most minimal therapies. In the end, they weren't enough to prevent her from becoming permanently hospitalized by the age of 10, unable to even leave her bed. Her bitterness only grew: she was visited by the Wish-a-Wish foundation, who offered things like visits to resort planets or meetings with celebrities for "unique" children like her.
"How about a magical potion that'll turn these soggy, decaying breadsticks I have into something resembling legs?"
It didn't go over well. Perhaps if Rosalie had been a perfect poster child, sweet and innocent, she could've gotten enough media coverage and support to raise enough money for more advanced treatments, and her life would've turned out differently. But she didn't. By the time the hospital started supervising her meals after she mauled her leg with a fork in a passive aggressive lunge aimed at nobody in particular, her parents knew something would have to be done, be it a desperate cure or assisted suicide. After some searching, they found the former.
The UTF approached Rosalie and her parents with an offer: she would sign her life over to them, her body becoming UTF property, and they promised they would do their utmost to allow her to overcome her disabilities. They would say no more- it was all very hush-hush. Her parents were reticent about the whole thing, but Rosalie signed herself away as soon as she was given the opportunity. Anything to be whole, to walk again, to get out of this hospital.
Suffice it to say, Rosalie was uniquely qualified as the first test of the UTF Army's newly formed Mechanical Augmentation branch. They specialized in standalone human augmentation: no moving parts. Period. Rosalie presented an opportunity for them to prototype more extensive augmentation: that is, the complete replacement of a person's entire skeletal system... as well as some other things.
She was shipped off to a small backwoods planet with a grin on her face. And when she got there, they put her under, and she didn't grin for the next 3 months. Not because she was unhappy or anything, but because she was in surgery for three long months. Two hundred and six bones take a long time to replace. Beyond that, there were setbacks, like the time they lost her T10 spine bone and had to order a new one, when her spinal cord was already exposed.
Yeah.
And finally, she awoke. Drugged, and fully bandaged, but awake. Some men would come by, have her do some things, talk to other men, and then she'd be put under again. This happened again and again- awake for a day, asleep for god knows how long. A day? A week? A year? Every time she woke up, she felt a little different. Some limb was stiff, or heavier, or even impossible to move. She was burning with questions, but the drugs made her pliant, and unable to take much action. And then she'd be put under again. And again. And again.
Finally, when she woke up, something was different. She was led to a room, with a real bed, and for the first time left alone. And she slept.
Her surgeries were over, for the most part. Oh, there was still some tweaking to be done, but for the most part she was considered a finished product. She fell asleep in her newly appointed chambers to muffled sounds of the doctors and surgeons having their fete in the next room over.
It had taken a year and a half, all told, to finish working on Rosalie. Most of it wasn't actually under the knife, so to speak: there were long, long recovery periods, and then they had to wake her up, and then they had to get her atrophied limbs to a state of decent ability. It was a slow, agonizing process- no wonder the men and women who spent so much of their lives on her were celebrating. Most of them, however, would now be sent off back to their homes, never to see the true fruits of their labor. It wasn't pretty, anyways. After the initial recovery- learning to walk again, etcetera- life became, once again, routine. Hospital life is all about routine: every day, she would wake up, be served a predetermined breakfast (monitored, of course, to make sure she ate it all), and then go out for basic calisthenics with Mz. Lusker (never Ms., never Mrs., always Mz., for everyone). This was usually the worst part of the day for Rosalie: walking was hard enough. Jogging- running- were agony. Every time, every single time, without fail, Rosalie would collapse red faced gasping for air at the end of their sessions. She'd try to stop, but Lusker would threaten her with reduced rations: the one time she did stop, believing they'd never actually follow through, she didn't get reduced rations for the day but no rations. That night she went to bed writhing with hunger pangs, and she always made sure to obey Mz. Lusker in the future. In the end, Lusker wasn't too bad a person- strict, and hard, but fair- but Rosalie vented her hate on to her nonetheless.
Next was second breakfast, and after that general education with Dr. Weylon. They decided that it would be best if Rosalie was reasonably eloquent, so this time was devoted to softer sciences. It was primarily composition, but once in a while Rose was given the treat of spending a day on history- all from UTF books, of course, and usually with a focus on military history, but nevertheless it was a really delightful change of pace.
After that, lunch, then anaerobic training with Sergeant Marsten. While the amount of physical exertion was similar to that of calisthenics, and Marsten was just as much a hardass as Lusker, he was, in some way, good-natured about it. He would still push her, but he did it differently: while Lusker treated it as a job, Marsten seemed to genuinely want her to excel. This was one of the only things keeping her from dreading anaerobic training; that, and the knowledge that after anaerobic training, after second lunch, was biological studies with Dr. Kenton.
Biological studies was the last class before dinner and subsequently lights out, and usually comprised of anatomy, physiology and medicine, but would cover other hard sciences from time to time, from chemistry to algebra. Normally Rosalie wouldn't have cared about all this, but she loved Dr. Kenton. Not in a romantic way (at least, probably not- with the kinds of hormones they were pumping her with, there was no telling just what she was feeling at any given moment), but Rosalie simply adored him. He was her little slice of humanity; he treated her not just as a human, but as a civilian, as a student even. He told jokes. They were horrible, horrible jokes (and this bone is the humerus, but I don't think it's particularly funny)- but Rosalie would laugh at every single one all the same. And when she was still getting used to her body, and would stumble to the ground every several steps, Dr. Kenton was the only one who helped her get back up. Even when she had a modicum of control, and stopped stumbling, she made sure to trip once in a while around him- usually on saturdays, so she could blame it on Stress Testing. Eventually, she came to biological studies and Dr. Kenton wasn't there; it was Dr. Weylon. She was taking over for him, she said. Rosalie didn't bother asking further; oh, she was burning with questions, but she knew she'd never get an answer.

This routine was broken twice a week, every week. Once was on every Thursday, for Stress Testing, and once was on every Friday, her liberty day. Sadly, most Fridays she was too worn to do anything- not that there was anything to do, as they'd never let her outside the compound, and there was precious little to do within. Because Thursday was Stress Testing.
Stress Testing, really, is self explanatory: they'd test how far they could push their creation. Just how successful they were in making her invincible. She'd be beaten, shot, stabbed, lit on fire, gassed, electrocuted... anything and everything. Whatever they could think of, that they thought she could survive. Oh, for sure, she couldn't feel pain... but when the cap on her air filter cracked, and she was in a room full of chlorine gas? Vomiting up blood for hours? It might not have been pain, but it was close enough. Sometimes, they let her move around, fight back; for verisimilitude, they said. Other times, they'd just strap her down and do as they pleased. She wasn't sure what was worse.
In the end, Stress Testing was one of the things that made her harbor thoughts of escape, but it certainly wasn't the only thing. She was still stuck in a hospital bed; it was just much larger now. What was the point of being able to walk if she couldn't walk anywhere? However, the facility was on lockdown: she never even allowed to open a window, let alone go outside. So she had to sit on her dreams, and wait.
Things continued much in the same vein for the next two years or so, until one day, as she retired to her chambers, she found a man inside. She recognized him as the one who initially came to her with the Faustian Pact, and he had another offer for her.
They believed that, for the most part, they had garnered enough information from her to start with another test. However, applicants were slim; there was one boy who looked promising, but he was unsure whether he wanted to go along with it. First, he wanted to speak with someone who had undergone the procedure.
Of course, if they could find a new applicant, he said, it would be no longer necessary to test Rosalie so thoroughly, nor to keep her under such lock and key. He then gave her a phone, saying that he was on the other line.
Rosalie lied through her teeth. She gushed about how enriching it was, how much better her life had become. She was a perfect actor. And in the end, it brought the kid to sign on.
Rosalie didn't feel too bad about it. The kid would probably adjust better to the regimen than she; after all, most would be content to just have such a powerful body. She wasn't, though.
Her new routine consisted of far more freedoms: she was allowed some books, a little more choice in her routine, what she ate, etcetera. When running during calisthenics, she got to go outside, run laps just inside the barbed wire fence that surrounded the facility. And Stress Testing came down to once a month. Most would be content with these new freedoms. She wasn't, though, and she planned an escape.
It was quite simple, really, when it came down to it, but she waited months before she had the courage to enact it. During calisthenics, she'd jog as normal... then put on a burst of speed, getting ahead of Mz. Lusker. Lusker sped up to catch up... and as soon as she was directly behind her, Rosalie spun around, slamming her fist into her temple. It was a perfect swing- crisp, clean, and Lusker collapsed to the ground, immobile. It was too easy... but Rosalie didn't let that stop her climbing the fence. She went right through and over the barbed wire, letting it tear through her skin. That was fine. What she didn't take into account, though, was her clothing, and much of it was torn to shreds by the time she was on the other side of the fence, ripped and bleeding.
And nobody came out. Nobody shouted. Her haste was useless; she could've probably just strolled off into the distance, but she ran. And ran.
And into the countryside, there was nothing. She didn't have the foresight to try to follow a road, and it wasn't long before she was hopelessly lost. In this backwoods planet, it could be days before she found civilization. She got lucky, though; as night fell, she could see lights off in the distance, and followed them. With frequent breaks, she made it by early morning. Again, luckily, it was early enough that almost nobody was out and about, and she was able to escape detection. Nevertheless, it was all so beautiful. Buildings. All sorts of buildings- shops, and trees, signs, cars... she almost felt normal. Exhausted, she entered a clothing store. She approached a rack of clothes, remembering going shopping as a child with her mother, and collapsed on top of it, gorging on the scent of fresh linen. And shocking the clerk into taking several moments before he could say anything, mouth agape.
Finally, he spoke up. "Hey!"
She started, staring at him, eyes wide. Silence reigned.
"...Um. You're getting blood on those clothes."
While most of her wounds weren't bleeding anymore, it was true she was covered in dried blood.
"You gonna buy anything, anyways?"
Rosalie wiped the tears from her eyes, sniffing, and nodded. It was so surreal, the clerk simply defaulted to normal action.

Physical Attributes:
Rosalie's most extensive modification are her bones. Each one was replaced with a metallic analog, an alloy of titanium that is hard as hell, flexible, and nearly impossible to bend out of shape. Very complex, very expensive. However, it's also quite heavy- several times heavier than bone.
Partially due to years indoors, partially due to systemic shock, Rosalie's skin, initially already pallid, became a pale grey. Beyond that, it was completely covered in a lattice of surgical scars. Her hair was similar: before, auburn, and after her surgeries limp, shock white. Her eyes had the bluish sclera of those with OI, and her pupils and iris looked a pale white from the plexiglas caps inserted beneath the cornea. Extensions in her limbs and hormone treatments, over time, made her stand over six feet tall, and despite this stature she had a very skeletal appearance: though covered in lean, corded muscle, it wasn't nearly enough to make her long, long limbs look anything but wispy. Despite having a surgically optimized and enhanced digestive system, it was simply impossible for her to gain weight: her skeleton alone weighed a few hundred pounds, and with constant, strenuous exercise regimes on top of that the amount of calories she took in- and burned- usually reached 5 digits.
Having no bones- and thus, no marrow- erythropoesis (red blood cell production) was a problem. Hormone treatment brought her to a prenatal state of production- that is, localized in the spleen and liver- and some marrow was saved, put in an artificial sac located where her reproductive organs used to be, but for the most part she is functionally anemic.
Below her skin are various meshes, mostly made of a flexible, fibrous, plastic-based substance. They're resistant to all sorts of damage. Other parts of her body actually have complex plastic plating beneath the skin.
All of her sexual organs were removed to make space, and for greater control: the doctors figured, if they were going to be giving her artificial hormones anyways, it would be most convenient to have a tight control over just how much she got.

In the end, Rosalie is incredibly, impossibly tough. And with a good mix of leverage, body mass, inability to feel pain and pure strength, she's also far, far stronger than she looks. All this comes with its own price, though.
For the most part, Rosalie is quite clumsy, having little control over her heavy limbs and little feeling in any part of her body. She also spends most of her days in a languorous state of exhaustion: it's hard to get going when you weigh 500 pounds.
LonnaD.I.S MAXIMUM SECURITY PENITENTIARY
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Designation: Green/Epsilon
Prisoner Number: H1654-6321
Name: Jasmine Nasira
Aliases: None
Age: 25 bio-years
Blood Type: O+
Height: 1.57 m
Weight: 65.77 Kg
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Brown
GenMod: Y
MechMod: N
Psychic: Y
Sentence: Incarceration and rehabilitation, indefinite period
Distinguishing Marks: Birthmark resembling split heart, back of right shoulder
Threat Assessment: Medium. Prisoner is has gen-modded strength and endurance, but signs of aggression have been minimal.
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Convictions:
Murder, 1st degree (109 Counts)
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Personal History: Upper-middle class background, homeschooling provided by a combination of parents and tutors. At bio-age 13 received physically strengthening gen-mods. Upon reaching local age of majority (bio-age 18), took a position with the industrial super-hauler Diamond, registered to Instell Mining Co. No major offenses prior to this conviction.

Personal Profile: Pleasant and polite, with a tendency to be reticent about personal matters. Insists she has no memory of the deeds for which she has been convicted. Psych eval gives no indication of any dissociation disorder.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT FOR LAW ENFORCEMENT USE ONLY
DO NOT COPY
The following is a transcript of the interview between Investigating Officer Kyle Ross and Suspect Jasmin Nasira:

ROSS: Hello Ms. Nasira, my name is Kyle Ross. I'm sorry you've been sitting here so long.
NASIRA: Can you tell me why I'm here Mr. Ross? I get the feeling you people think I've done something horrible.
ROSS: Have you?
NASIRA: No!
ROSS: Then don't worry about it. I just need to ask you some questions about the Diamond.
NASIRA: Was the damage worse than I thought?
ROSS: Damage?
NASIRA: We hit some uncharted debris while changing mining sites. It banged us up pretty good, sent one of the main engines into the red. I knew losing it might interrupt power to the cryo-pods so I activated the emergency procedures to wake up the rest of the crew. Our cryo-pods are pretty old, and I didn't want to risk a fatality if we lost power. The next thing I remember is waking up in your med-bay. The mech-doc said I was being treated for seizures.
ROSS: Ms. Nasira, you'll forgive me if I find that story hard to believe.
NASIRA: Why? It's the truth.
ROSS: I highly doubt that. You see, you don't appear to have made any attempt to cover your tracks.
NASIRA: What? I'm confused, what happened?
ROSS: It's all right there to see in the ships logs. You used your access code to wake the crew, and they, following procedure for an emergency thaw, went promptly to the hanger for evacuation. Except that once they were all inside, you remote-sealed the airlock and jettisoned them into space. The portion of the crew who were already awake were outside assessing the damage, and you simply locked them out of the ship.
NASIRA: What? No! I couldn't have; I wouldn't have!
ROSS: You could and you did! Not only are your fingerprints on all the relevant controls, your unique access code was used for each and every override!
NASIRA: Maybe someone else got my code! I can't say I was ever that careful with it - someone else could easily have seen it over my shoulder - ask the other survivors!
ROSS: Ms. Nasira, of the one hundred and ten registered crew members on the Diamond, you are the only survivor.
SuperMuldoonDylan Koscheck
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Prisoner Number: G925-37678
Name: Koscheck, Dylan
Aliases: Fourteenth Prophet
Age: 31
Blood Type: O
Height: 1.85m
Weight: 70 Kg
Eye Color: Blue
GenMod: N
Sentence: Imprisonment, Life
Distinguishing Marks: Cult of the First Prophet tattoo - left forearm. Blue rhombus inside of a blazing yellow sun.
Threat Assessment: Prisoner is a physically capable individual, however no formal combat training exists. Prisoner however is a highly charismatic individual who is capable of winning others to his cause. He is aided in this by his telepathic abilities which activate upon bodily contact. Prisoner should be confined to solitary unless restrained in a full body protective suit that prevents skin to skin contact.
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Convictions
Kidnapping
Assault
Abuse
Illegal possession of firearms
Illegal possession of controlled substances
Manslaughter
Murder
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Personal History: Dylan was born and raised by a highly religious couple who refused to have the embryo gene-screened due to their beliefs. Dylan showed no outward signs of abnormalities, and the natural birth was deemed a success.

Around his 13th birthday, Dylan was beginning to show signs of his telepathic gift. He was able to excell academically due to his power, however his strict religious upbringing led to conflicts with the other students and he quickly became a pariah.

After his graduation he left home and decided not to attend college, instead opting to travel to an outlying colony to start his own life. Using his gift, he quickly established himself as a person of interest, and began his own church. Slowly but surely, he gathered to him a large congregation, of which he maintained emotional control over due to the intimate knowledge gained from each subject during his services. His telepathic gift allowed him to read each person and find out the best way to manipulate them into service.

Slowly but surely the numbers in the Church of the First Prophet grew, many people forsaking their former lives to become full time members, living in a compound away from the major settlements. The sector government did not like this, as the colony needed these people to keep the settlements running. It didn't help matters that people were beginning to go missing as well. The sector government had no choice but to send their police force to deal with the problem. However, during this time Dylan had stockpiled a variety of weapons and had so exerted his control over his subjects that they were willing to throw their lives away for him. That first police dispatch took heavy losses, forcing the sector government to call in the STG (Special Tasks Group) in order to deal with the fortified cultists. The ensuing siege lasted a month, with heavy losses on both sides. The STG had managed to breach the compound and captured Dylan, along with a few of his most loyal subjects.

Personal Profile: Physically a rather attractive man, if somewhat nondescript. Highly charismatic individual who specializes in converting people to serve his own agenda.

Excerpt from interrogation session 11.B, Officer Albrecht
Officer Albrecht: So tell me more about this 'higher calling' you claim was behind your actions.
Dylan (smiling): It is not merely a higher calling officer, it is a way of life! The First Prophet came into my meager existence and enlightened me to continue his great work. I was given the title of Fourteenth Prophet in order to help bring his light into our world. We live in troubled times, officer. I was leading these people to salvation.
OA: Sure you were. Is that why you kidnapped little kids to brainwash them into slavery? Is that what you call salvation?
D (smiling): These children, truly blessed they are. They were taken away from an existance of thankless toil to be given true purpose in these troubled times. They were saved, each and every one!
OA (frowning): Saved!? Is that what you call that massacre that you oversaw!?
D (smiling): Massacre? Those children died upon your bullets. They sacrificed themselves along with all the others to attain spiritual purity. Every one departed this life with a smile and a prayer upon their lips for they are no-
OA (Angry): You son of a bitch!
-Office Albrecht proceeds to punch the subject in the face-
D (smiling): Officer Albrecht, you have a son don't you? Are you sure he wouldn't be happier in the service of the First Prophet then his current situation?
OA (Angry, worried): Shut the hell up you monster!
D (Smiling): I can tell you have a rage inside of you officer. A rage that your son often experiences, just as I am now. Maybe you should repent for your sins as well.
-Subject begins laughing as Officer Albrecht again physically assaults the prisoner before he is forcibly removed from interrogation room.

[Pwenet]

Dramatic Persona - Part 2
The_SnarkPrisoner InformationSol Federal Penitentiary System
Clearance Level Delta Blue
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1Prisoner Number: A155-443739
Name: Katinka, Zemaya
Aliases: None
Age: 33
Height: 1.95 m
Weight: 61.91 kg
Blood Type: O+
GenMod: Y
Augmented: N
Psychic: N
Sentence: 5-10 years incarceration
Distinguishing Features: Golden-bronze skin tone. Distinctive bioluminescent patterns running down face, neck, arms, and torso.
Threat Assessment: Negligible. Prisoner is accustomed to a low-gravity environment and has no record of violent crime. No known combat training. Genetic modifications are largely ornamental in nature. (NOTE: official documentation in the Jovian Belt is nonexistent; information given may be unreliable or incomplete.)
1Convictions:
Illegal genetic experimentation
Practicing medicine without a license
Copyright infringement
BackgroundSo you read that form up there and you still haven't got a clue who I actually am, do you?

I'm not surprised. They don't want people in their prison system; they want a list of facts and numbers that they can feed into a machine somewhere and then forget about. The last thing the government wants is for anyone reading these forms to start thinking of prisoners as living, breathing people.

So I'll be giving you my life story, instead of leaving it to some yoot to summarize. My name is Zemaya Katinka. You can call me either one; some of my parents are of Japanese descent, and they never did agree which name was supposed to come first. I was born in a creche out in the Jovian Belt. My parents were...

Wait. You've never heard of the Jovian Belt? What century are you from, again?

Screw that noise. There is no way you're going to make sense of me if you don't know what the Jovian Belt is.

So.

Let's talk about Jove.

Let's Talk About JoveJove's story starts a couple hundred years ago, right around the time the FTL drive was developed. That's what kicked the whole thing off, actually; one of the old Sol-system megacorps called Ganymede Mining Industries went under when the Conway drive was put into production. They'd invested practically everything into extracting raw minerals and rare isotopes from Jupiter's satellites. Put together, Jupiter's satellites put together form the largest concentration of metal and rock you can find in the solar system, short of the inner planets, and unlike the inner planets you don't have to lift everything you mine out of a gravity well. Problem is, Jupiter also has a nasty radiation belt, which is hard on machinery and even harder on manned ships. It was costly, and when the rest of the galaxy opened up for human exploitation—sorry, did I offend you? I meant exploration of course—they were doomed. Supposedly there was some real hush-hush black ops industrial espionage going on; they tried to sabotage FTL tests, make it seem unsafe, destroy prototypes, whatever. You hear all kinds of stories. Whatever happened, when GMI finally went under it went under hard, with most of the top execs arrested or gone underground. They just upped and abandoned most of their holdings.

The Jovian Belt grew out of GMI's corpse. Some of the machinery was repossessed to settle debts, and some of it... wasn't. So people moved into the empty facilities and habitats. Mostly, they were the kind of people who didn't fit in elsewhere: communists, socialists, anarchists, radical Free Traders, followers of the neoEnlightenment movement, the Reformed Church of Zeus and more. The Jovian satellites became known as the place to go if you wanted a fresh start, free of the baggage of mainstream society.

We had cheap real estate: the old GMI mining machines could hollow out an asteroid in just a few weeks, and after that all you had to do was seal it up, pump in some air, import water and soil, and voila! Your very own asteroid habitat, about a million times cheaper than terraforming and much closer to home. You needed some money at startup, but even back at the beginning there was a sense of community between all the different groups, and some of them would lend a hand to help new groups get established.

And once you got settled? Well, money never really caught on in the Belt. The communists were insistent on the barter system, of course and it started to rub off on everyone else. What's the point of having currency, people asked? What do we need businesses and corporations for? What good are they doing us?

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Right from the start, the Belt was what you call a postscarcity society: we had more than enough manufacturing power to automate just about everything we could think of. A few asteroids were set up as hydroponic farms to produce food, overseen by VIs and maybe a couple of human techs in case of emergencies. Drones handled most of the menial labor jobs, too.

So what's this mean?

It meant no subsistence living. No spending a lifetime trying to work off a debt you incurred paying for the education you needed to get your sh*tty job. No more working class. (The communists were thrilled.) It meant that all of your basic needs were provided for, free of charge. It meant you didn't have to struggle just to exist. You could spend your life doing what you wanted.

And out of that arose the Jovian Belt.

The Belt is the name for all the asteroid habitats, space stations, and lunar colonies in orbit around Jupiter, plus a few erratics that wander around the solar system but live like Jovians.

Like I said, there's no money here. The Belt works on a kind of informal barter system. When you want something—luxuries and nonessentials, I mean—you ask around for someone who can give you what you want, and then convince them to give it to you. Sometimes they'll want something from you in return, like a work of art or a trip to the rings of Saturn or sex, but sometimes they'll do it just to be friendly.

Hey—that's a good analogy, now that I think of it. We look at trade the way your cultures look at sex: you shouldn't have to pay for it, you should find someone who's happy to give them to you.

Am I making you uncomfortable? I know a lot of Outsiders are straitlaced about sex. We're not. At all. We've got monogamists, trigamists, polygamists; we've got gays and straights and bis and a few orientations you wouldn't even recognize, because they depend on genders you've never encountered. (I'll get to that in a minute.) Anything goes, though most people consider modesty kind of quaint. We get a lot of flak for this; some people outside claim we're loose, debauched, sinful, or whatever their preferred religious buzzword is. We tend to think of them as a bunch of judgmental prudes. Guess it's just a matter of perspective.

(If there are any judgmental prudes reading this: you're still wrong, by the way.)

"Anything goes" is one of those sayings you'll hear a lot around here. Drug manufacture is big here, both for export and local use. Most of the local designer drugs are designed to have a minimal impact on your health, but there are always people who are willing to go for broke and burn their bodies out looking for that extra buzz. I think they're crazy, but it's their choice. People aren't as fussy about cybernetics as they are outside the Belt; the neoEnlightened and a couple other of the first-generation Jovian groups were hardcore transhumanists, and the rest of us have gotten used to it. Likewise for genetic augmentation: practically every native-born Jovian has some baseline augments. Cosmetic alterations are popular—there are a lot of artists who work with the human genome and body as a canvas, including moi—and a few people who go further than that. They'll tell you outside Jove that you can't alter a person's basic body structure very much after birth. They're wrong. A few adjustments as a fetus can leave a person capable of producing developmental hormones and stem-group cells that open the way for drastic alterations later in life. I worked with a community once that wanted to live in a habitat filled entirely with oxygenated water; they needed gills, fins, a more streamlined body shape...

... frak, I'm getting caught up in technical talk. The point is, we're ahead of the curve when it comes to genetics, mostly because the rest of humanity gets squeamish when you start looking at becoming something that doesn't look human. Or maybe because there's no profit in it? I don't know. Don't ask me to make excuses for your backwards society.

Where was I?

Oh yes, the economy. You're probably giving me skeptical looks when I talk about the abolishment of the working class and so on. Sounds too good to be true, yeah? It is. I'm not going to pretend everyone is magically equal now that we're past capitalism. The new upper class is the famous.

Yes, I know that's not exactly unique to us. Bear with me. Our entire economy is based on what people think and feel about you. If five people are asking you to make them a cake or a painting or whatever it is that you like to do, you're going to pick the one you know first, right? Reputation is like currency: the more famous you are, the more you can get. The true elites are the artists and performers whose work goes viral; people practically fall over themselves giving you what you want, in hopes that a bit of that reputation will rub off on them and they can say, "I once made a flashsuit for Zemaya Katinka!" Somebody a hundred years ago coined the term luminaries to set them apart from Outsider celebrities, and the term stuck, but it's pretty much the same thing.

Sound shallow? Yeah. It's a pretty frakked-up system sometimes. Some of the luminaries are just artists who happened to strike it big, but you also get some real attention whores, the kind of person whose only real skill is pulling other people's strings. I guess that's an art form, in a messed-up kind of way.

The luminaries are about the closest thing we have to leaders. We don't have any kind of formal government—the UTF disagrees, but that's another matter—but they're the ones who can make their voices heard. Not that they do that very often; the Jovian Belt as a whole doesn't get involved in politics much. We stay out of the UTF's business, and they mostly keep their distance. I guess it's convenient for them to know where to look for smugglers and other criminals.

And yeah, we get a lot of those. We don't have a lot of homegrown crime. Well, of course we don't, there's no laws here, but... you get what I mean. There's still some people who'll try and take what they want instead of trading for it, of course, but most people aren't willing to risk retaliation when they've already got a pretty good life. For the occasional nutcase, well, there's always mob justice. (Organized crime is practically nonexistent; we had a couple of homegrown mafia-style organizations early in the Belt's history get their habitats popped with a mining laser after their threats pissed off too many of their neighbors. Nobody wants to be the third.) But there's nothing keeping Outsider criminals from coming in. No taxes or tariffs or regulations makes Jove very attractive for a certain subset of outsider: smugglers, tax evaders, money launderers, drug runners, fugitives from justice, even the occasional corporation looking to dodge UTF labor regulations. There are some pretty scummy areas in the Belt if you know where to look; the UTF sometimes sends police forces in to bust big operations, but it's a lot easier to hide out here when there's no local police force. Mostly, we leave these people alone, and they do the same; they're looking to make money, and we don't have any.

I could go on about the Belt for a long time. I've lived here for thirty-one years, I know the place pretty damn well. But I think that's enough for now, don't you? You have at least a vague idea of what I'm talking about when I say I'm from the Jovian Belt.

Back to me.

Background (For Real This Time)My name is Zemaya Katinka, I was born in a community creche in the Jovian Belt. I've lived there for most of my life, except for two years attending a medical school on Luna.

I am an artist. My primary medium is the human body, first and foremost my own. Other people come to me for modifications, of course, but they usually have their own ideas about what they want. If I am intrigued by those ideas—if I can share their artistic vision—then I agree to take them from idea to reality; but I am at best a partner, at worst a tool in the creative process. My work on others is not wholly mine. But there is only so much I can put my body through before it becomes cluttered, and so I am also a performance artist. You may have heard of my work, even if you aren't Jovian. Some people have.

I am a gentech. I learned basic mathematics, biology and genetics from my creche's caretaker and from educational VIs. Practical knowledge is all you need to work as a gentech in the Belt, but I have also sought out education in Clarketown, and even outside Jove. I have published a number of scientific papers in my field, and attended several scientific conferences in the inner system. I say this so you will understand I am not merely a dilettante artist with just enough knowledge to make cosmetic changes; I am a master of my chosen trade.

And yes, I'm one of the luminaries, if you hadn't gathered that already. I am very good at what I do, and people know it.

Perhaps I should be saying was, because my life has recently taken a turn for the worse.

Most Jovians spend most of their time looking inwards; they think of the rest of humanity as backwards and hopelessly mired in the past, when they think of them at all. But some of the founders were radicals who wanted to bring down the old systems and usher in a new era, and that's never quite left. There's always going to be people who want to change the world, and there's always going to be stupid people, and sometimes the two overlap. Lately it seems they've been overlapping a lot. I don't even know the name of the group of morons responsible for this particular mess, only that they had the bright idea to equip a few asteroids with FTL engines and threaten to ram them into a UTF outpost if certain governmental reforms weren't made.

Idiots.

Of course, that got the UTF's attention. They located and nuked the asteroids, then moved in to capture those responsible... and it seems like they've finally decided to start cracking down on the Jovian Belt. They moved a police force in, and started hauling away anybody who made a fuss. I'm not sure what'll happen to Jove, whether it'll manage to survive the UTF invasion or if this is the end. I'm not going to get to find out, either. Most of the UTF's trumped-up charges didn't stick, but mine did; not only that, but they managed to get me deported. Turns out there are some pretty draconian laws against certain forms of genetic modification if you dig around in the legal code.

So, prison. That'll be fun.

Bastards.
WhiteKnight777Umber the (Space) Vampire

Prisoner Profile

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Designation: Red/Omega
Prisoner Number: E472-22139
Name: Krieg, Solomon
Aliases: Sol the Snake, w1s3guy66
Age: 22
Blood Type: AB
Height: 1.9 m
Weight: 85.28 Kg
Eye Color: Blue
GenMod: Y
Sentence: Transportation, Permanent
Distinguishing Marks: Scar (Right eye, vertical, 6 cm) Tattoo (Oroborous, right pectoral.) Scar (Horizontal, stomach, 10 cm)
Threat Assessment: Prisoner is dangerous personally - he is a trained marksman and knowledgeable in close combat techniques (Krav Magda, Zion Prime variant) Far from the most dangerous prisoner we have ever handled on a personal basis. Does not display aggressive tendencies unless he has something to gain. Extremely manipulative - recommend highly restricted interaction with prison personnel and other inmates.
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Convictions
Fraud (44 Counts)
Embezzlement (33 Counts)
Malicious Computer Intrusion (109 Counts)
Impersonating an Officer of the Law
Impersonating an Officer of the Church (Catholic) (3 Counts)
Impersonating an Officer of the Church (Reformed Revised Scientologist) (7 Counts)
Public Indecency
Indecent Acts with a Corpse
Fleeing from the Scene of a Crime
Assaulting an Officer of the Law
Grand Theft (Atmospheric Vehicle)
Destruction of Public Property
Vandalism
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Personal History: Extremely priviledged background. Father was known as a corprorate pirate, made his fortune popularizing genetic modification - Solomon was the poster-child for this. Heavily genetically augmented, significant increases in intelligence, age resistance, physical function across the board. Psychological analysis suggests extreme pressures in home life, particularly after early death of mother. Learned to view people as objects and assets. Love/hate relationship with father culminated in his expulsion from university after he edited the results of his own and a number of classmates' final examinations for profit & amusement.

Worked at his father's corporation for a number of years, used his access to patient data to cause chaos, possibly even several deaths. Culminated in a massive scandal that involved massive corruption in his home city, the sale of vast quantities of patient data and genemod secrets, and the resignation of numerous public and church officials.

PERSONAL ADDENDA: The slippery bastard's father paid to have the more severe stuff covered up. Paid double to get him permanently shipped to a penal colony.

Personal Profile: Easy, gregarious, erudite. Enjoys displaying knowledge, showing superiority. Prefers to manipulate others. Hates to lose. Values self-control, but can be short-tempered if frustrated. Sexually promiscuous. Bitter and vitriolic underneath exterior joviality.

Unfocused in the larger scheme of things. Demonstrates no particular motivation, often gives in to personal ennui. Extremely competent in the short-term, poor long-term planning. Intelligent, but highly self-destructive.

[Pwenet]

Dramatic Persona - Part 3
Because knowing everyone here we will need this third post sometime in the future :smalltongue:

[Pwenet]

...And So It Begins...
Arkive Stumbling down the corridor you curse at whoever was responsible for taking your arm!

It was a work of beauty, something you had built and modified yourself. When you were captured it had been “removed” for the safety of the officers of the public, yet you have another term for it. It made walking away awkward, forcing you to concentrate on every step. In addition doing things became more complicated with only your flesh-and-blood hand.

You had been hoping that once you arrived at your destination for your imprisonment that you would get it back. But no. Woken up from cyro-stasis, you found yourself on some kind of space-craft. Worse yet it seems that you are still in route, why they would wake you up in the middle of it did not seem to bode well.

The guard behind you shoves you hard again. Considering your groggy state, and the fact that the guard had a stun-stick and seemed ready to use it, it was not the best time to explain the error of his ways. Of course it didn’t help that you have reached your destination.

Stumbling through an open hatch you find yourself in another chamber filled with cyro-stasis units. These units however looked different. They had several more monitors on them, and seemed to be configured differently. In addition there were several white-suited people walking about, checking readouts and making adjustments. Several of the pods are occupied, while several more and empty. One of the white-suited people looks up from what she is doing and curses.

“What the ****! I told you, we needed a healthy speciman, not a cripple!”

“Sue me! He’s healthy, so what if he is missing an arm?”

Sounds like the guard is none to happy with her.

“So what? This test batch I was about to run requires a fully organic male within a set weight range. This loser without an arm will simply screw everything up. Plus how the hell am I suppose to restrain him properly!”

“Look lady, you asked us to provide you some prisoners noone would miss. This guy meets that. He is healthy, no diseases, can’t you just change the dose or something.”

“Oh look at that, the grunt telling ME what to do. Get your ass back to the prisoner ship, grab me a whole NON-ENHANCED person, and by non-enhanced I mean fully organic, not one who is missing an arm, and bring them back!”

By this point the lady seems to have finally noticed you and glares. Looking you up and down she sighs.

“You screwed up there, but I think I can salvage this loser for something else. Next time I tell you to get me something, you follow it to the letter! Now get out of here!”

The guard curses, and something must have crossed your face, or he was just pissed off enough that he swings out with the stun stick. The change within the stick sends you to your knees, while the physical impact to your back already aches. That would bruise. As the guard leaves the woman sighs.

“Incompetence. Can’t they tell I’m too busy to deal with this bull****. Tom! Get this jerk prepped for sample T52.1M.”

“Is that sample not yet ready?”

“Of course it’s not! Look, secure that loser in one of the backup pods, we can get back to him later.”

One of the other white suited people, Tom you guess, comes up and guides you over to an empty cyro-stasis pod. Your nerves, and the grogginess from your recent awakening don’t lend yourself to being able to struggle. Placing you inside one of the empty pods he secures your ankles, waist and organic arm to the inside, preventing you from moving. Looking at the exposed stump he shakes his head and sighs.

“Look, sorry mate, Sam there is pissed off, we lost our last batch recently and the pressure is building. Make yourself comfortable, don’t fight this, and you may get through this in one piece, eh.”

Walking away you find that you are left alone, and essentially forgotten. You being brought to them was obviously a mistake, but how could this be of help to you? Without your arm, and the way the the restraints were built you had some extra flexibility. You then notice something odd, there were additional controls by your fingers. Typically used by people who were the last one to enter cyro-stasis they provided access to some of the basic functionalities to the unit. You might be able to sneak in some keystrokes possibly while you are forgotten, of course if they catch you, that would make your bad day even worse...
BelGareth It was said that no-one dreamed in cyro-stasis.

Of course there were some models that would knock one out first prior to implementing the freeze. Those models however it was like napping, while the newer models which froze you instantly would make it seem like a blink.

"Message for you sir." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SwNXQMoNps&feature=related)

The scene flashes through your mind-eye, an odd even for someone suppose to be frozen.

“Greeting Lt. Colonel.”

A hazy image of Lt. General Grand appeared in the middle of the scene, looking faintly bemused, yet his expression turns serious before wavering in static.

“You must be wondering what is happening? Why I betrayed you in your trial. To be blunt, I needed you to be sentenced. The fact you are a friend, make it more painful, but I had little choice.”

“There is something strange going on with the Redemption Corporation, besides the fact that they are one of the biggest conglomerations in existence with their hands in everything. Lately though there have been disturbing tr*static* we needed to get someone inside however *static* failed.”

“This is the thin*static* something they may have foun*static* invented*static*.”

The entire scene shifts away and suddenly your nerves flare with cold pain. The entire scene seems to stabilize for a few seconds as Grand continues to speak.

“This is where you come in. What you were accused of doing, what your punishment could be, all that was needed were a few choice words and you got a sentence that would place you into the event horizon of the Redemption Corporation.”

“Now, to aid you, we did some creative tinkering. When we provided your frozen body, we indicated that we had disabled all military prosthetics that you were equipped with. That is not true*static* ition the cyro-stasis chamber that you are stored within*static*othing large or overly complicated, but*static*ugh their scans. Finally we progr*static*ou this message, at the time when according to their flight logs they would be *static*.”

“Once you complete this mission, finding out w*static*pardon signed and*static*. Good luck.”

Looking up you see a darkened frosted lid over you. Limbs struggle mostly unresponsively as you try to move within the confines. Your vision from your artificial eye crackles and shimmers, as if it was damaged somehow. Finally your artificial arm moves as your deadened nerves finally respond and you are able to push up on the lid, which moves up. Warm air strikes your body and you start to shiver uncontrollably as you sit up. Seeing that you are clad in a bright orange jumpsuit it is a logical leap it does not have enough fabric to help keep you warm. Looking down you see that the built-in restraints had retracted, freeing you.

Focusing on the chamber you find yourself in, you see that it is a small storage room with a sole hatch. Around you are several other cyro-stasis units, all of which connected to various outlets in the wall. Looking down you see that they are all still active, although the frost on them prevents you from seeing who they are. Sniffing the air, it smells stale and you can’t hear any signs of life-support systems running. Awakening further you find that you are floating in the chamber and that the sole source of illumination is from the cyro-stasis pods. Evidently no one knew that you had been awoken.

Seeing a blinking light underneath where you used to lie you see a seam appear in the fabric, which widens until a small chamber appears. Inside are various pieces of equipment, all of which you recognize from various missions you went on in your previous life. Depending on how responsive the crew is it would be a good idea to start moving in case your early awakening triggers any alerts.
Gorgondantess The smell of burning flesh assaults your nose as the crackling sounds of electricity buzzes in your ears. Held up on a cross-shaped rack with your arms secured above your head, your muscles contort and spasm as the electricity plays havoc with them, until finally the current stops. The smell of burning flesh continues to tease you, hinting that you should be feeling something else, what many people call ‘pain’. Yet besides stiffness you feel nothing.

“Subject continues to maintain consciousness despite the application of sufficient electrical current to generate second-degree burns along torso. Notes on improvements to the sub-dermal modification have been recorded.”

The voice comes from the person operating the controls that governed this set of “experiments”. He looks completely normal, not the stereotypical evil scientists. Average height, weight, body type with a pair of glasses he did not treat you like anything special. You suspected he probably viewed you like he viewed an animal to be autopsied. Other than the man, this chamber held a few computer terminals, some surgical equipment and your rack. There was a large mirror on one wall which you suspected was a one-way window, with others being able to see you. However you had never seen anyone else expect this one man.

“This concludes phase 3 of examination. Will monitor subject healing rate from recent application of trauma inducing event before moving to phase 4. Phase 4 will consist of subject capability to withstand exposure events outside of spacecraft. Phase 5 will consist of postmortem examination to future models.”

That was the worst part, you knew exactly what would be happening to you before it did. He made all his notes in earshot of you. Of course you had been trapped in this tiny room since your recapture, subjected to these experiments. Time had lost all meaning in this chamber, preventing you from knowing what exactly had happened. Almost all of the time however you were bound to the rack, the restraints of sufficient durability to prevent you from simply breaking free. Once in a while you were allowed to walk around, usually as part of another experiment, such as when you were forced to run through a steam-line rupture.

“Ending observations for today. Will provide nutrients to subject to aid in recovery and maintain homeostasis due to pre-existing conditions due to prototypical nature of modifications.”

By feeds he meant shoving an IV into an arm and walking out of the room, which is precisely what occurs. He didn’t even leave you the decency of leaving the lights on, but instead tossing you into darkness. Resting against the restraints it seems that it would be another long night. Tugging at one of them, one that had been tugged at for quite some time, you feel it give slightly. Maybe you might be able to break free, however where would you go? You suspected that if the restraints were broken it would set off an alarm, yet what else did you have to lose? It sounded like they were nearing the end of what they wanted to do and were curious to see what spacing would do to you.
Lonna Waking up you look around the room you find yourself in. The hospital bed is comfortable, tempting you to fall back asleep however the cramps decide to keep you awake. The various pieces of medical equipment beep and hiss appropriately, however they sound wrong, empty. Hearing footsteps you turns your head to see a nurse checking your vitals.

“How are you today miss? Feeling any better?”

The grogginess prevents you from answering as the nurse finishes checking the monitors. However she does not seem to be aware of your lack of response, simply humming to herself until something catches her eye.

“Looks like you have a visitor.”

Turning your head you see a familiar looking man entering. Pulling up a chair he moves it next to your bed and sits down in it.

“Good Morning, I’m Kyle Ross. I’m here to talk about what happened to you.”

Something seemed wrong. He was familiar yet not. You try to speak but the cramps in your stomach make you groan instead. Ignoring your discomfort Kyle continues.

“You are the only survivor of the Diamond. We picked up your escape craft, which had a malfunction and as you know, passed the nearest system and continued. You were lucky another ship happened to find it, the odds of that, are astronomical. The company is prepared to settle with you, paying out for time spent frozen due to catastrophic situations, however we need to ask you, what happened?”

The discomfort becomes pain. Screaming out you look down at your stomach, distending and stretching. Sweating profusely your scream as it ruptures, and something spins, twists, glows and darkens, reaching into your mind, reaching into your eyes!



Screaming your fall out of the bunk onto the hard deck. Tasting blood you push yourself up and manage to sit down at the edge of the bunk. The tiny cell you were in closes in, compressing around you. Slowly breathing you start to calm down and your mind starts to fill in the pieces. The nightmare was not the first one you had since you woke up on this ship. This all started when you were woken up from cyro-stasis, not on the mystical prison planet that you expected, but rather on the transport taking you there. From what little you have seen it is similar to the Diamond, but much larger, divided into stand-alone sections which have different purposes. Many of the memories are hazy, but you remember meeting a scientists, informing you that you would help with something, or else something bad would happen.

Looking at your arm you see faint marks from where drugs had been injected into you. In addition the coolness on your scalp reminds you of your hair being shaven off. You don’t remember exactly what they were doing to you, only that since they started doing whatever it is that they do, whenever you fell asleep terrible nightmares follow you.

The hatch to your room then groans as the metallic sound of it unlocking assaults your ears. Looking over you see one of the scientists, the first one you met, what was his name...

“Good morning H1654-6321. How are you feeling today? I hear you had a bad dream, would you care to tell me about them?”

Standing behind his you can see the outline of a guard, ready to come in if you attempted anything. The scientist pulls out his PDA and makes a note as he watches you.

“Today we have a busy day! Something interesting came up during the night, and we need your help once again. You do want to help us don’t you?”

Pulling away his PDA he removes a syringe. You recall that previous times you didn’t want to help, that the guard would come on in, hold you down while they injected whatever that junk was into you. Typically all that would happen would be the bad dreams. Yet who knows what they are doing to you when they drug you? Would it be worth it to play along for a time?
SuperMuldoon All was as it should be. Your children sitting around you, their mothers smiling at you happily. Their fathers were at work, readying their weapons to live and die for you, the speaker for the Church of the First Prophet. The time was soon, when they would fulfill their duty for this life.

Yet something was off. The children were not smiling and giggling with youth. Their faces were ashen, wilting away as you watched. Their mothers stroked their heads which crumbled away revealing decaying flesh and brain matter. The fathers stood up, saluting you and turned their weapons onto themselves, blowing themselves away.

A screaming whine slowly starts to rip through you ears as the mothers start to laugh, a sound that no human throat could possibly make. Yet they seemed happy as your settlement bursts into flames around you. Shadowy shapes run around, blowing themselves up, their corpses causing more fires to burn.

Unable to move you see Officer Albrecht approaching you. His eyes are gone, held in his hands as he presses them into your hands, allowing you to feel everything that he ever did. Darkness falls as you feel something squishy in your hands. Squeezing them as they pop, sticky fluid running over them. The fluid starts to climb over you, stabbing you, ripping you apart to be food for.....

Clenching your fists you awaken. Lying on a bed, fully restrained see the semi-familiar confines of the cell that has been your home, for quite some time now. Time has no meaning these days, ever since you were sentenced and placed into cyro-stasis. Yet you were not thawed out on some distant planet, but on the ship taking you there. Some scientist wanted you, having recognized your gifts and, those drugs made things strange, you don’t recall what happened, only remembering waking up the next day, or week, sometime later. Yet as much as they appreciated your gifts, they did not like them being used against themselves. When you were initially woken up you found yourself clad in a skin-tight suit of some metallic material that covered you head to foot. Goggles let you see the outside world, you were intravenously fed and hydrated while you were unconscious, and the suit even had facilities for processing, well, nothing need be spoken about that in polite conversation. Finally to ensure that you didn’t try to free yourself from the suit they had you restrained when they were done with you.

Hearing a door open you turn your head to see two guards entering the tiny cell. The suit also preventing your from speaking to them unless they enabled that functionality. They work on releasing you and re-securing you for transportation. Your arms are crossed in front of you and as you are forced up a backplate is added, preventing you from moving. Hooking in poles they force you up, and push you with the poles, minimizing any chance of touching you.

Shoved through the narrow corridors you see identical doors, but no other signs of life. Yet that changed when you reached the end of the corridor which opened up into another chamber, this one with several examination beds and several people with the air of education about them working. One of them sees you being led in and nods. Walking up to you he looking into your eyes with his sole eye, the other a mass of scar tissue over a hollow socket.

“Good morning. I really have to thank you for everything you have contributed to us so far, no matter how little you yourself may appreciate your contributions. We had a interesting development last night, one I think you will be best suited to help us with.”

Reaching towards your neck the man makes and adjustment, and you feel air running over your mouth, smell the man’s breath, the antiseptics of the chamber.

“As you probably guessed I’m letting you speak. I want your promise to cooperate for today, and we can see about letting you out of that suit afterwards. If things go really well we might be able to talk about how your contributions aid humanity, and maybe even get you sent elsewhere. Of course, if you betray us, well, that will not be so good. What do you say?”
The_Snark Watching the twitching form at the other side of the observation window, you find yourself wondering what these people did what they did. The woman subjected to the electrical currents must have been in agony, however she did not seem to react other than the involuntary reactions of her muscles as the electricity played havoc with the nerves.

Your imprisonment started “normal” enough, if that could be the term for it. The sham trial was short and you were frozen for the trip. However mid-way through the trip you were thawed out. Mr. Smith greeted you upon waking up in a comfortable bed. Evidently he was a big fan of yours, and was willing to bend some rules to obtain your help with a project. He mentioned something along the lines of maybe even being “lost” in the paperwork and returned to civilized space in exchange for your cooperation. Not seeing much choice you agreed.

You were given a tiny, yet comfortable room without any roommates, although the door was always locked when you were led there and you were almost always escorted by a guard.You were given some flexibility with your working habits and schedule at times, and to be honest some of the work they had you doing was interesting. Most of it was along the lines of human augmentation with a strong emphasis towards what could be best termed as creating a “super-soldier”. They were working on a wide variety of different models, ranging from genetic to mechanical augmentations. Today however was a interesting day, for you were brought in to observe the reactions of one of their models. Mr. Smith stood next to you, pointing out some of the key items regarding this model.

“As you can see, this particular subject does not process pain. She was born with congenital insensitivity to pain along with other genetic disorders. We “helped” her by allowing her to be a test subject for some interesting ideas, however she escaped and there were some deaths involved. As such we are using her to isolate some ideas for the next series of models. However what really interests us is her congenital insensitivity to pain. If we can duplicate it, imagine the possibilities. Soldiers continuing to function despite horrific injuries. Quicker recovery time. Emergency first-aid in which the subject could help the operator while maintaining their mental facilities.”

“We are looking to have you apply your talent to this. We are looking to eliminate just the processing of pain, leaving intact temperature, pressure, everything else a soldier would be interested in.”

The woman sags against her restraints as the current ends, yet she did not seem to be in any physical pain although her body must have been abused badly.

“Can you do a genetic workup, using this subject as a baseline, to reproduce some of the more interesting traits more efficiently? No need to answer right away, we have some time. How about you review her records.”

Pulling up some records you find the personal information on the subject. Mr. Smith looks up as the chamber where the woman is being held blacks out.

“Time for her to rest. Tell you what, review the records, and let the guard know when you are done with them. You can let me know your answer in the morning.”

Walking out Mr. Smith leaves you alone in the chamber. The past few months of cooperation seems to have paid off. Looking over at the other controls you see a light flicker on one readout. Peering closer you see that is the sensors on the restraints for the subject, which appear to be under some pressure. It could be a faulty sensor, or it could be her trying to escape.
WhiteKnight777 Pain...

Jerking up your body screams out in pain as the electrical current runs through it before cutting out. Falling limping back into the restraints that bind you to the chair, groaning you blink your eyes as consciousness slowly comes back. There was the constant pain from the IV in your arm, the gnawing emptiness in your stomach, the pressure from a full bladder that all too soon would give in with the pinpricks from the monitors around your forehead, the stench of waste. All in all, nothing new for, however long you been trapped like this.

When you first awoke from the cyro-stasis you thought that you had arrived at whatever destination you were being sent to. Instead it seems that your loving father paid extra to make this a trip in hell. Beaten, starved, abused, hours turned into a ungainly mass of days or months. You were rarely fed, although after the corn-beef sandwich you were originally given was quite tasty, but you didn’t need to have seen it again five minutes later along with everything else you ever ate. Lately though the people doing this to you seem to enjoy locking you in a room, no lights, chained to a chair that would shock you whenever you attempted to fall unconscious, sometimes waiting a bit at random intervals.

Your father was getting his money worth. You were even starting to hallucinate a line in your personal hell.

The line widened, split opening blinding you starving eyes. A shadow appears and the entire chamber bursts into bright flames. Your brain slowly catches back up as you realize that the lights were just turned on. Far too slowly they adjust until finally you are able to make out the chamber. There was your torture chair, with you bound to it. Across from you was a simple metal table with some controls on it, another chair on the opposite end with a man dressed in a business suit, sitting there with his hands clasped together resting on the table.

“Good Afternoon Mr. E472-22139. I do hope that you enjoyed your night sleep. We have some work to do.”

Reaching down to a briefcase resting next to him the man pulled out a folder and looked over some of the honest-to-god paper before picking one piece our and placing it down. Pulling out a pen from a pocked in his suit he looks over the paper.

“Let’s see, according to this contract I am to do the following. I am to, and I quote, “make you know pain”.”

Reaching over to the table controls he taps a button. Electrical shocks run through your body as your convulse in the chair until they stop.

“Next, I am to make you know fear. Do you feel fear? You don’t need to answer right away. You are then to feel regret over your actions. Finally you are to live with said regret for the rest of your natural life. To be honest in most of my contracts the last two do not apply, after fear it ends up being “and you will die”. However as in our previous discussions your father has rather specific orders regarding your treatment.”

Making a few notes on the piece of paper the man, (damn him for never giving his name) seals up the pen and places it back in his pocket.

“So tell me. Do you feel fear? Do you feel regret? Be honest, my probes will tell if you are lying. How would you like to have some real food? Complying will reward you with a corn-beef sandwich?”

[BelGareth]

Corbin shook his head, the 0-G made the feeling ten times worse than it should have been.

Grand? He thinks to himself as the fog settles in on his mind.

Without thinking he grabs all the gear from the secret compartment, and then situates himself with his feet on the stasis chamber coiled up like a frog, ready to push off.

He pauses looking down at the equipment,

What the hell is going on? This was done on purpose?

Shrugging his shoulders he continues to think to himself

Wish that damn message hadn’t shorted out on me, I missed some seriously important information. Oh well, not the first time I was sent in feet first.

Feeling the chilled air, he hugged himself rubbing his arms with his hands, he knew he would have to get into something warmer or find a compartment with the enviro cycles on. Flexing his mechanical arm he flicked his eye lightly seeing if it was just simply out of sync.

Looking at the hatch the room he pushes off and grabs when he gets close enough.

“Now let’s see to getting this thing open” he says to himself, almost surprising himself, his voice felt croaky and rough as if he hadn’t used it in months.

wait, how long had I been in there for?thinking to himself as he figures out how to open the door.

[WhiteKnight777]

Solomon

Sol giggled at the way the man introduced himself - he couldn't help it. It was too funny. This stranger coming in, all business and ice-cool professional interest in the progress of his pain. He leaned against the chain, his body unable to even support itself. He'd been Gene-modded towards the upper limits of human capability, but a body was a body was a body, and it could only take so much. Had his gnawing stomach began to cannibalize his muscle tissue? How far had atrophy set in? He could almost feel himself, growing black and withering like a turtle on its back under a hot desert sun, turned over and left there to bake from the inside out, roasting in the oven of it's own shell.

That had never been Sol's bag, though - animals didn't interest him as victims. As a matter of fact, he actually rather liked them, especially cats. He'd had a cat when he was younger, until one of his father's mistresses had accidentally stepped on it coming out of the tub. Had that been Sharon? No, before her. Bunny, he thought, the stupid bitch.

His mind was wandering, staggering through the tilted corridors of consciousness like a New Year's Eve drunk. His laughter, a high, tittering thing that sounded insane even to his own ears finally tapered off, and he cocked one slitted eye at the nondescript man in his nondescript suit. He grinned at him.

"Oh, I see why father dearest picked you. You look like a serious man. My father places great stock in serious men." Sol pronounced the last two words with the sort of towering contempt usually reserved for politicians and child molesters.

"Oh, but forgive me - you had questions." Solomon said in solicitious tones, his tongue sliding like a dessicated worm over his cracked and bleeding lips. "As to pain... well, yes. But I'm sure you can read that, with all your lovely little gadgets in interesting places."

He sucked in a breath, wincing - everything hurt, including his insides. "Fear... do I feel fear?" He didn't have to ask himself. He could feel it in the ice-cold sweat on his skin and the gnawing in his guts that went deeper than just hunger. He wanted to vomit the contents of his empty stomach all over the floor. "Oh yes.... fear. Plenty of fear. Plenty of anger, too, but you didn't ask about that." He gave the man a smile red with bloody spittle.

"And regret?" He paused, thinking, or at least trying to think. "Oh, bits and bobs of it, I suppose. A few things did not go as I planned, and there were a few people who, it must be said, did not deserve some problems I inflicted upon them. But on the whole - not much." He would have shrugged, had his arms been free. "It was an interesting ride, but it seems to have come to an end. I would do pretty much anything for food, but I suspect you're taunting me."

He paused, then for some reason felt the need for more. "I did what I did because I chose it, Mister G-Man. No other reason. Maybe I'm sick, and maybe I'm broken in side... but hey hey, Einstein said it all those years ago - everything's relative. Even if you weren't going to... correct me, I wouldn't lie about that. I made my choices, and the only real regret is that I got caught." He gave the man what might have been a seductive grin, was it not coming from this leering ghoul. "'course the biggest joke of all is that Daddy Dearest put me here, and then put you here to ask me all this bull**** about "regret." Oh my, if you only knew what that man's done in his lifetime, both for business and for pleasure. Makes me look positively small potatoes. Then again, he was always better at these games than me. I just go along for kicks and gigles, as they say. He's the man with the plan. Guess that's why I'm here, and he's back in his tower, trying to convince himself he's a real man with some high-pay joygirl. Or something more savory." He giggled again, and once again it was the sound of madness.

[SuperMuldoon]

Dylan Koscheck

The time in the cell, with the drugs and the visions and the restraint. It was all a test of faith for Dylan. Every day he felt himself breaking more and more, but when he survived he felt his spirit becoming stronger and stronger. Time, that's all it was, and the First Prophet would present him with an opportunity. Now, being led around like some wild animal, he was face to face with someone who was giving him just that. He took a deep breath, savoring the smells of the air - the realness of it all. Slowly, a smile crept back onto the face of Dylan Koscheck, and he spoke for the first time in what felt like an eternity in silence.
"I am but a servant in this world, my existence guided by the light of the First Prophet. I believe I can further serve Him on High by assisting you all in your endeavours, so please, consider my talents at your disposal." he said, the words feeling like honey rolling off his tongue. It had been so long, and now at last, his chance. Words were always the greatest of his weapons, and they had just gone and given them back to him. He met the stare of the one-eyed man and held it for a long time, always smiling.

[Arkive]

Bastards! Kidnapping, arm-thieving, cattle-prodding bastards!

Scott rotates his stump of a mechanical arm, relieved that the shocks haven't caused noticable damage.

I should add a capacitor module, to absorb shocks. Wires distrubuted under the skin would carry the current to the module. Have to be heavily insulated. And isolated to prevent backcurrent. Might even negate the muscle paralysis. Heck, I could even add a taser of my own, powered by the capacitor. I'd be a ****in' electric blue mage!"

He savors the thought of tasing the lady in white. It'd serve her right, experimenting on people. What was it? T52.1n? m?
Zak: new profile:
"lady in white"
name = "Sam"
notes = "sample T52.1n"
The lack of response bewildered Scott; his hacking vi should respond immediately. Damn. Reality sets back in as he snaps out of his daydream. The vi in his forearm module can't reply when there is no forearm module.

Focus Scott. He tries to lean his head forward to shake the cryo-grogginess, but his fresh back-bruise
causes him to immediately regret it. Damn. Ok. So. The Man caught me rootin' around his secrets. Boom. I'm a criminal. So I'm "apprehended" (kidnapped) and sent off-world Scott shudders. He hates space-travel; so many things could go wrong. These guys woke me up to experiment on me. On multiple people. Conversation between "Sam" and the guard suggests this isn't unusual. Is this the gov? wouldn't surprise me. I've seen rumors of neo-nazi gov work on the 'net. So I'm at the mercy of neo-nazis. in space. Neo-nazi "Tom" seemed reluctant about subjecting me to unprepared sample T152.1n, but then he poked fun at my missing arm. I mean seriously? 'you might get through in one piece'? I'M ALREADY IN PIECES. jerk.

Scott's eyes widen slightly as he spies the controls near his fingers. Perhaps neo-nazi "Tom" is a dissident. Too ethical for neo-nazi "Sam"'s methods, he leads me to a tube I can control and tells me (in code) that I might get all my pieces together. Or he's an insensitive idiot. He mentally writes Tom off as a possible dissident/idiot and turns his attention to the controls. Surely a 'loser' as unimportant as him isn't worth taking the time to cycle in and out of cryo? But just in case... As stealthily as he can, he keys in commands. Length of cryostasis overridden and set to thirty minutes. Now to wait for the lab to sleep. Neo-space-nazis sleep, right?

[Lonna]

Jasmine Nasira

Jasmine hesitated when asked about the dream. It was already slipping away, but she remembered the pain in her stomach, the taste of bile mingling with the blood in her mouth. Maybe that was why she felt miserable.

Fortunately, her silence was overlooked, the scientist apparently not as interested in her dream as he was in offering to let her "help" him, whatever that meant. Jasmine shrugged, trying to appear casual.

"Sure why not? It's not like there's anything better to do in here."

And it almost has to be better than the nightmares these drugs are giving me, she added silently.

[Gorgondantess]

Rosalie grimaces as the electricity wracks her body. Grimacing: that was all she seemed to do these days. Grimace, and bear it. It might not have been painful, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. She didn't like damaging her body. A decade of hospitalization will lead one to be like that. Blood welled up in her mouth, whether from a bit tongue or welling up from damaged innards she couldn't tell; she hoped it was the former. As soon as the electricity stopped, she spat it off to the side, hoping to sully the man's pretty white coat; however, it fell short, her brackish, black blood simply staining the white tile. They learned to keep their distance, after the last time.
That was the worst thing about it, their passivity. They absolutely refused to respond to anything she did. She'd make snide remarks to whoever was near, but by this point she was talking to herself more than them.
She grimaced as she overheard her demise. Not even trying to hide it? Of course not. She was an animal. She couldn't understand, could she?
"I can hardly wait."
She resisted the urge to snap her teeth at the man as he put the IV in, try to rip out a chunk of forearm. She was not an animal. Rosalie Fryer is not an animal. It was getting harder and harder to believe that.
Still, when she was left in darkness, it was hard not to smirk. Six times. Six times she had broken out of captivity, and this would be the seventh. They always, always underestimated her.
She yanked the bonds, gave it a tug, a wiggle, and then started pulling. And pulling. And when any other human would have fallen- their bodies forcing them to stop, at risk of snapping their muscles- she kept pulling, arcing her back, slow, steady. The metal groaned. She could feel her muscle fibers snapping, and blood oozing down her wrists. And finally, with an anticlimactic crunch, it snapped off.
There's one.
Her arm was wrecked, the skin around the edges of the restraint shredded and oozing black blood. But what would be debilitating to any normal human was simply an inconvenience- highly inconvenient though it may be.
Assuming no alarms ring out, she'll get to work on the other restraints.

[Pwenet]

I don't have a good feeling... WhiteKnight777Listening to you, you can’t help but think of the man as a head-shrink, either of the telepathic of mundane version, sitting there all prim and proper, hand crossing in front of his mouth as he listens. Stopping he makes a note on the paper before looking back up at you.

“My client’s personal habits are not at question here. It appears that in most part I have completed the requirements of the contract for the time being. However while your level of regret is not at the level that my client would like, it does us no good to turn you into a withered husk.”

Tapping a control the shackles that held your hands in place release. The man pulls out a sealed back and gracefully opens it, revealing a sandwich. Setting it on the table he slides it on over.

“Unlike your previous experience, this sandwich is unaltered. However in your condition I would strongly advise small bites at first.”

Pulling out a canister, the man opens it and pours some water into the top portion and slides it over as well.

“Don’t think of this as mercy. The human body, even to this day and age, requires “natural” methods to sustain itself. After you have eaten we will...”

Before he finishes his sentence the man looks annoyed. Turning towards the hatch, he puts away his notes and grabs his briefcase before turning back towards you.

“It seems I must end our session early. I will be back.”

Walking towards the hatch the man opens and exits. You can hear the hatch then seal itself shut, leaving you alone in the room. Except like so many times, this time there was still lights, food, drink, and strangely enough an active set of controls to various parts of the room at the far end of the table. Something must be up to cut this interrogation short, unless it was part of a larger plot. Yes your hands were freed, however you were still bound to the chair by waist and leg restraints, again controlled by the table from what you recall. It could be part of the mind-games that your dear old-man dreamed up, or it could be something else. Would it be worth it to take advantage of however?
BelGarethGrabbing all the gear you find that it comes with a standard set of torso-webbing and belt to hold everything on your body. Slipping it on as you approach the hatch your eye crackles and shorts out after you flick it, plunging you partially into blindness. Text then starts to rapidly appear in your vision and you recognize that it is rebooting itself for lack of a better term. At the end of the sequence you see something that does not bode well.


MEMORY CORRUPTION - STORAGE CORRUPTED - RUNNING LIVE-STREAM ONLY - PLEASE SEE REPAIR TECHNICIAN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE

The text hovers there for several minutes until it vanishes and your vision returns to normal. Clearly something was wrong with it, but what you didn’t know. However that was for later and now you had a door to get through. It appears to be a standard hatch with a manual access valve in the middle. Seeing no other way through it you grab the hatch and give it a good spin. The door groan and shudders slightly but then opens. The corridor it pitch black, with the only illumination coming from your cyro-stasis pod. Looking out in the corridor you find that it stretches towards either side, with similar looking hatches all along at regular intervals. The air itself is stale, as if it has not been cycled for a good long while. Plus while you are still waking up more fully, the gravity seems to be dialed low, just enough to nullify effects of acceleration of the ship but not enough to simulate Earth-Norm gravity. That could be a long-term problem if you are trapped in this section of the ship for a few years, but for now that was probably an added bonus.

Doing a quick check of the gear you find that it is a fairly complete kit. Starting with basic survival supplies, limited water and protein pills, basic first aid kit, tiny glow-sticks and various tools you also check the combat knife and slug-thrower with a few spare ammunition clips. You can’t help but notice that everything is basic technology, not reliant on any type of power source. Several potential reasons for that flash through your mind, ranging from detection of the equipment to length that you would be kept on ice. Still everything you find appears to be functional.

Looking off to the side of the hatch that you just emerged from you see a computer monitor built into the wall. Glowing faintly you see various names listed, including yours. Tapping your name you see a brief summary of your life, crimes (censored version per your background) and sentence. However there appears to be no signs indicating that the system is aware that you are conscious.

Another look down the corridor reveals that at the end appears to be a set of closed doors leading to a cargo elevator. In addition you see an access ladder leading both up and down, supposedly towards other levels, quite possible similar to the one you are on. Oddly enough there were some lights starting to flash from the ladder, almost as if someone was starting to climb up it, a theory that gains traction as you hear breathing and some grumbles.
ArkiveTyping in the controls you move back into position when “Sam” appears again in your eye-sight. First of all you notice the ancient glasses, making her look mean and angry. The second thing is that one of her eyes is artificial, not just a “looks just real enough but obviously fake” but a full blown “yank it out and put metal in place instead”. She does not even have and eyelid, and the lens itself glows red. Really helps with the Neo-Space-Nazi impression.

“Disgraceful. Stupid jarheads can’t do anything right. They don’t pay enough for this bullsh*t.”

Pulling out a syringe she stabs you in your meat arm none to gentle.

“Tom! Monitor his vitals and don’t bother me unless his eyes bleed!”

Already everything is starting to go fuzzy. You barely see Tom come into your eyesight and the lid to the chamber start to lower.

Jerking awake your body feels like it is on fire. Screaming out in agony, the lid to the cyro-stasis chamber opens up and you fall out as what appears to be hundreds of fire-ants violate your body. Rolling on the ground you bump into something that falls apart and you inhale something that reminds you of ash and a barbecue. Shaking all over you convulse and vomit onto the deck. Your stomach seizes again and you vomit again, tasting blood.

Just as suddenly as it started the pain eases away, feeling like it took your skin with it. However you feel even more awake, even hyper to a degree. Sitting up you brace yourself for a beating considering your “energetic” exit from the cyro-stasis chamber.

Yet there were no guards, no personal around at all. Lights flashed oddly off and on, and there is a odd sound in the air. Looking around the lab you notice forms on the ground, curled up on the ground in fetal positions that looks suspiciously like humans. Turning your head you see one next to you, one that has partially disintegrated into free-floating ash that was now covering you. Sadly you see no trace of cybernetics around the eye in it, nor in the other forms that you can see.

Looking at the hatch that you entered you see situated in the emergency light above is a blinking yellow and magenta light turning on and off. Blinking on and off it shuts off and the strange noise fades away. Skin crawling you realize that was a radiation warning, which from your limited knowledge you recall only goes off when certain levels of radiation is detected. Clearly looking at the corpses around you it was in the fatal region before it vanished, however was there enough to give you a fatal dose?

Another interesting note, the hatch is now cracked open, and slowly continues to open as another burnt corpse presses against it before falling to the ground, disintegrating into fine powder.
LonnaSmiling the man puts away the syringe and makes a note in that PDA of his. The guard however stiffens and turns towards you, suspicion written on his face. Something about him seems familiar, at the tip of your tongue, a stabbing pain in your gut, but that fades away at the scientist looks up back.

“Well then, it’s nice that you are cooperating with us today. I think it would be good for you to get some exercise, come along with us.”

Walking out of your tiny quarters, you follow him while the guard follows silently behind. Emerging into a central chamber with what appears to be a simple food storage and preparation unit in the middle, you see other similar hatches like the one that was for your quarters. Were there other prisoners being stored here? Drugged up and experimented on?

Leaving the central chamber you are escorted into another chamber, this one with a variety of examination beds. Almost out-of-place yet looking like it belong was a figure clad in some kind of full-body suit, his arms crossed and secured in front of him with his torso surrounded by a metal brace with hooks. The suit covers everything, including his face, yet it seems he was able to hold a conversation. A person with the look of a doctor or scientist of the unethical nature appears to be conversing with him, however you start to feel a sense of wrongness here, as if you were just a interesting item to be examined by the people in here. No, not you, you felt like you were just a tool, a improper one to be used but one of the few that is available.

“Prisoner, lay down on that table.”

Your escort points at a table, and a sense for foreboding starts to gnaw at you.Taking a step forward a sharp buzz sound rips into your ears and a blinking light catches your attention, although the buzz sound fills your with dread as countless drills from your past life come rushing forward.

Radiation Alarm.

Looking at the hatch you entered through you see the emergency light, yellow and magenta, flicking on and off. That was good. If it was steady that would mean lethal radiation dose, blinking meant that there was a radiological event elsewhere on the ship. Panic slams into you as everyone starts screaming out.

“What the hell?”

“What do we do?”

“Are we dead already?”

“No fool, it’s somewhere else.”

“We got to get out of here!”

“Shut up! Remember your training.”

“Screw the training we are...”

“Secure the subjects! We need to move, now! I don’t like these readings from the item!”

Falling to your knees as waves of terror ripple through you, you see the various people moving through actions hesitantly. Something tickles your spine and laughs, and you find yourself turning towards a empty part of the bulkhead. You see the other man, the one fully restrained also turning to look at the same part of the bulkhead before he is physically grabbed by one of the guards and moved towards the corridor. The guard who was to restrain you grabs you by the back of your neck and pushes you out the hatch. Most likely they were moving deeper into the ship, where there would be more protection from whatever external event was triggering the radiation alarms.

Stumbling through the hatch you feel terror rip through your again, and a sharp stabbing pain in your forehead, as if someone were stabbing an ice-pick through your skull. You push the woman ahead of you, trying to get out of the chamber, away from the danger. You recalled the horror stories about radiation, how it would warp DNA, sterilize you and make your gun fall off. This girl was helpless, it would be so easy to let her go, and run away towards safety, anywhere else....
SuperMuldoonMaintaining eye-contact with the one-eyed man he looks back into your eyes. The staring contest continues as he watches you, until he nods slightly.

“I’m glad you are willing to serve us. I’m sure that you “First Prophet” will approve as well.”

Turning away from you the one-eyed man started to work on a terminal as the hatch you were rolled in through. Looking over you see a bald woman enter, escorted by another doctor or scientists or someone else, with a guard behind her. More and more interesting.

The one-eyed man turns back towards you.

“We will need to keep you in that suit for the time being, however if you would kindly set yourself down on that table we can start with your selfless act of volunteerism.”

Before you can act a sharp buzzing sound rips into your ears, and the lights start to flash oddly. Looking around you see that above the hatch, where there was a set of what appear to be emergency lighting was a strobe going off, flashing yellow and magenta. Everyone in the chamber seems to look at it, and reach the same state of terror at the same moment.

“What the hell?”

“What do we do?”

“Are we dead already?”

“No fool, it’s somewhere else.”

“We got to get out of here!”

“Shut up! Remember your training.”

“Screw the training we are...”

“Secure the subjects! We need to move, now! I don’t like these readings from the item!”

...look at me...

The Voice spoke to you. The only Voice that you knew, the one that has guided you throughout your life, the Voice that led you down this path.

...come to me...

Turning your heard towards the Voice you see the bulkhead that it came from. You see the woman who was brought here as well turning as well to look.

...serve me my prop

Pain rips through your skull as you are grabbed by a guard and physically turned around and shoved through the hatch. Stumbling through it you barely manage to keep your balance, yet the pain of the Voice leaving you was what enraged you more, even if was an irrational rage. Yet the sweet terror you tasted from the guard pushing your back was sweet, sweeter than honey. Oh it would be so easy to talk to him, there were so many topics. His “recreation” with the subjects would probably be nice to reveal to everyone, or how he cried himself to sleep, his drinking and drugs. It was glorious to touch another person like this, and the kindly one-eyed man made it all possible by giving you your power of speech back...
GorgondantessThe violent start to your escape attempt appears to be going off without a hitch. No alarms blasted out, no lights shining in your face, no sounds of angry footsteps. Yet there were so many other possibilities of thing that could go wrong. Like the old saying you once heard, there was no rest for the wicked.

Working on the other restraint you find that with a free hand it was child’s play to release it, simply ripping it apart with your enhanced strength now that you were able to get a solid grip. Must less time needed, and more importantly it was not as damaging to your body. The other restraints also were ripped apart just as easily, by themselves they were weak, but once one of them failed, the game was over.

Stepping off the rack in who knows how long, even your heavily modified body feels off. There was no pain of course, but it was not moving as it should, slower and clumsy. Focusing past that you start taking steps forward, relying on memory in the darkened chamber until you feel the cold metal of the main valve for the hatch. Turning it it clicks in place, of course they locked it. Bracing yourself you yank it violently and with several snapping sounds from within the valve spins freely and the hatch opens, illuminating your chamber with light from the outside.

Listening you hear nothing, no sounds of footsteps, breathing or anything from humans. Just the sounds you have gotten used to due to your imprisonment, the hum of electronics, hissing of the life-support systems. Looking out the hatch you see that it is at the end of a corridor which curves ahead. There are other hatches irregularly spaced out, all of them evidently secured for they are shut. Sadly when you were brought into this area of the ship you were unconscious, thus you don’t have any recollection of how you got to where you were.

Moving along the corridor after taking care of any business you may have in your former home, you start to hear dim snatches of conversations. One of the hatches, now that you are closer, is partially open and from within you can gather a couple of people talking. The smell of food also makes it’s presence known, your diet was IV nutrients for the most part and some protein pellets when your captors felt generous. You might also be able to find out more about where you were. Sneaking on past further into the ship would be a easy matter as well, but carried it’s own risks as well...

[WhiteKnight777]

Solomon

Sol paused, but only for a moment. The possibility that this was a trap flashed through his augmented brain, but truth be told, Sol was more a creature of action than of planning.

His first action was to pull the IV from his arm reach forward and grab the sandwich. He began eating, ravenously but slowly. He knew he would vomit it all up if he ate too fast, and he would need every ounce of strength to escape. As he did, he ran over his options with the cagey, frightened cunning of an animal in a trap. He took slow sips of the water to wash down the chunks of god-be-praised food. Even as he ate, he could feel his wasted, tortured body convulsing and forced himself to stop, letting the shudders pass. It was a tortuously slow process, made all the worse by the fact that he knew it could be interrupted at any time.

As he ate, he wondered if the head-shrinker was just that stupid, or if this was all a ploy. Once again, he dismissed that particular concern - if it was, it was, and there was nothing he could do for it. but if it wasn't...

He gave a vicious grin and washed down the last few bits of food. Looking at his situation, he shrugged. With a grunt of effort he heaved himself up on the balls of his feet, using his arms braced against the table to support most of his weight, and squat-walked down towards the other end. Every muscle in his body was on fire, and he had to stop once - the other end of the table might as well have been the Horsehead Nebula. But he kept on, and after a subjective eternity he found himself by the panel. He looked it over, trying to figure out how to release himself. And after that... well, he'd seen how the head-shrink had exited the room. His heart was pounding, and he felt another sensation akin to sexual arousal. After that, the world was his oyster. And he was going to jam a knife in and pry it open, then scoop out all the meaty pink bits.

[SuperMuldoon]

Dylan Koscheck

The sound of that voice was burned into his mind as he was shoved down the hallway. It seemed that was all he was ever going to think about again, at least until that familiar sensation flooded in. The familiar sensation of knowing another - that foolish guard had made contact, and now all his secrets were pouring in. It felt so good after so long, like cool water for someone lost in a desert. Dylan relished it, but quickly turned to use it to his advantage, especially now in the chaos.

"Officer..." he began as he stumbled in front of the guard, "Can you tell me what is going on here? I can assume this isn't a normal part of the research." he says, tinging his voice with a hint of fear. So many angles to play, best to hear what the guard says before beginning to press. Dylan did his best to hide a grin. If he could somehow get free...he needed to find that voice again. That bald woman seemed to notice it too. I'll need to have a chat with her as well... he thinks to himself, filing the information away until he could act upon it.

[Arkive]

Scott
He shivers, suppressing another wave of nausea. Scott might have a mechanical limb, but he is still mostly biological. Radiation exposure is new and frightening to him. Questions tumble in his mind, as he unsteadily rises to his feet.

What happened? How'd I live? Did I just breathe Nazi-ash? Where's my damn arm?!

Casting his glance about for answers, he examins the cyro-monitors and looks for any administrative consoles. A more focused line of thought begins to surface as he steadies himself against his amputation-induced imbalance.

Where's the radiation from? Am I still being irradiated? Did the alarm alert anyone? Do I have time to run? Do I have time to figure out what the hell is going on before someone walks in on me, alone with a room of fresh, ok burnt corpses?

The soft sound of a pile of ash dropping to the floor brings his attention to the opening hatch. He tenses, fearful that the hatch may be opening to reveal that beating that he expected earlier.

[BelGareth]

Corbin

Ah crap

He thinks to himself, the incoming person was more than just trouble, it was a possibility of being detected, and right now he was trying his hardest to not be detected.

Several scenarios go through his head, being played out in perfect detail until the scene is appropriate or not. Weeding out the bad ideas until he had a pool of options that were viable.

No, I can't kill, he would be missed, nope can't do that, interesting...sometimes I amaze myself!

Moving to another door further down the hall he finds a hatch with sleeping occupants and opens it.

If I can just stay out of sight, my disappearance will be known, but there is no way around it, I can't eliminate him, he would be missed...

Moving into the darkened room and closing the door behind him with the gentle touch of a life or death situation, he moves out of the light from the window and stays in the shadow. Watching to see what the person will do at the sight of the open door and thumbing his slugger as he did.