Springbreaker - A Forever Winter Planquest
- Thread starter BOTcommander
- Start date
- Sci-Fi
-
- Tags
- dystopia sci-fi war plan quest
That is just the mechanicist cult still though.
- Pronouns
- He/It/Argh!
Fixed thanks. Insomnia and trojans are a bit of an issue.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Eh, I think the relationship between the It techs and System is more nuanced than just copying the Admech
Caretaker [Canon}
Caretaker
Quentin Voss knew fear. It had been a constant companion, lurking in the shadows of his life, but he wasn't special in that regard. Many knew only fear these days, alongside despair, hunger, and thirst. He had been spared those longings. Yet, no one could escape the war seemingly consuming the world.
As a boy, he had watched the Prison City of Fulsum burn, leveled by Eurasia bombers during the Black Summer Campaign. The memory of that day still haunted him—his family's desperate flight to the Sacrifice, whose defense network kept the city safe while thousands of others perished in the hellfire. They were among the lucky few, but even in their survival, the scars of that day lingered.
Years later, at eighteen, fear gripped Quentin again when he was called into service for Europa. It was a fact of life now. Conscription was commonplace, especially for those who scored "substandard" on their aptitude tests and evaluations. The fate of many before him and many more soon after.
Most of his family was gone by then, and only his older sister remained. She had prayed for his safety, her faith unshaken even as the world crumbled around them, desperately clinging to old mysticism in hopes of saving her little brother. His sister gave him her old cross and told Quentin to keep it on him. It would be bad for him to meet God without it.
Yet, fate had its cruel ironies. While Quentin was resettled in Lost Angels, his company preparing to be sent into the ruined frontlines, his sister succumbed to a Plastic Lung outbreak that ravaged their bloc. God hadn't saved her. Hadn't saved anyone.
He was alone, but so was most of everyone else in his company. Quentin felt pity for the conscripts that had someone waiting for them. Although perhaps it was also jealousy over the fact they did. There was nothing left for him.
But something would come to save Quentin.
His first and only battle as a conscript felt like an eternity trapped in chaos. The skirmishes in Lost Angels blurred into a nightmare of gunfire and smoke. Amid the confusion, Quentin stumbled upon an old terminal connected to the local network. As a child, he'd had a knack for computers, but life had never allowed him to nurture that talent. Yet, in that moment, instinct took over.
Quentin was desperate. Every command, every backdoor trick he knew failed him. Panic set in, and in his despair, he found himself praying—not to any god he believed in, but to anyone or anything that might save him, even if it was one of the cursed machines that ruled this place.
To his shock, the screen in front of him flickered, and suddenly, access was granted. The local camera and ID network appeared before his eyes. With trembling hands, Quentin stumbled upon a discovery that changed everything—a map, more accurate and up-to-date than anything his company had. This information turned the tide of the battle, enabling his unit to survive and even capture an old bunker.
Though begrudgingly impressed, his captain recommended Quentin be reassigned to the rear lines. "You fell through the cracks in your aptitude tests," the captain remarked, his tone a blend of irritation and reluctant respect.
Quentin wasn't sure if it had been divine intervention or simply a stroke of luck, but he found himself pulled from the front lines by forces beyond his understanding, armed with only his modest tech skills and a strange twist of fate. They told him he was sent to the rear to assist with technical support on the local server networks—an otherwise mundane but vital task.
But that seemed to be a cover for something.
Quentin was barely a week into his evaluation when the Europan Intelligence Division soon came calling. They interrogated him, scrutinizing every detail of his life, following up with an invasive body scan and a mental evaluation. Quentin was certain he had failed miserably when they actually tested his technical skills.
He fully expected the EID operatives to take him out back and execute him for wasting their time on what must have seemed like a fluke.
Yet, when he returned, they handed him a "satisfactory" rank. He barely had time to process this before a black hood was thrust over his head. They told him it was standard procedure for anyone being taken to the central server networks for Europa's California network.
The journey seemed to stretch on for hours. Quentin felt every jolt and turn of the truck as it traveled uneven roads, the hood's darkness heightening his disorientation. When the vehicle finally came to a stop, he was unceremoniously escorted out, his guards guiding him through what felt like a labyrinth. After what seemed like another eternity, they entered what Quentin assumed to be an elevator, descending deep into the earth. That didn't surprise him; no one would be foolish enough to house vital technology on the surface, where it could be easily bombed.
When the elevator finally halted, and the hood was removed, Quentin blinked in surprise. He was standing in a small, sparse living space—unexpectedly comfortable, with all the basic amenities. His guards told him to wait for his superior's arrival and promptly sealed him inside.
It wasn't the spartan furnishings that caught Quentin off guard but the details. The sink offered clean, running water—an almost forgotten luxury in these times—and no timers or limiters were attached. Other minor conveniences, like a working personal computer and a microwave, were also present, all functioning without restriction. Quentin barely had time to inspect them before a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. "Mr. Voss, so nice to finally meet you. I am Director of Operations Lucas Templesmith."
Templesmith looked ancient—perhaps in his seventies- a remarkable feat considering the harsh realities of their world. Reaching such an age was almost unheard of when most people struggled to survive into their sixties. Quentin couldn't help but wonder what the man had endured to make it this far.
The director greeted him with formal politeness and quickly got to the point. Quentin was now part of an experimental program for prospective cyber-engineers and technicians—those who would aid Europa in the war effort by tending to the machines that had become their salvation and burden.
"We rely on Europa for so much these days, Mr. Voss. It's only fitting that we take care of it in return," Director Templesmith began, his tone measured. "You are now in one of the central server facilities—an essential hub for our operations. I must inform you, however, that this will be your permanent stationing. What this entails will be revealed gradually over the next few weeks."
Templesmith gave Quentin a moment to absorb the information, even allowing him an hour to process it if needed. But Quentin quickly responded, explaining that he had no one left on the surface, so being stationed underground wasn't the worst fate he could imagine. He then expressed his doubts, admitting that his technical knowledge was limited and questioning how much help he could really be here.
The director's lips curled into a faint, amused smile. "A sound mind is valuable, Mr. Voss, but quick hands and nerves of steel are equally important here. You've already demonstrated both in battle, and I have no doubt you'll find your place within these walls. There are… well, let's just say there are things you'll come to understand in time."
With that, Director Templesmith invited Quentin to follow him, explaining that he needed to complete one more evaluation before becoming a full team member. Quentin braced himself for another interrogation or a sterile meeting room, but instead, the Director led him on a tour of "Operations Facility 01."
"We're just one of many facilities," Templesmith remarked as they walked, his voice steady. "But this place—this is where Europa, the system itself, made some of its most pivotal decisions. We're not an afterthought or an adjunct. We are an integral part of the greater whole. Always remember that."
Quentin couldn't quite grasp the full significance of what Templesmith was saying, but the weight of it hung in the air. As they approached a massive set of blast doors, curiosity got the better of him. "Where are we?" he asked.
Templesmith paused, a faint, almost reverent smile playing on his lips. "At the temple gates," he replied, his tone filled with the pride of someone about to unveil something extraordinary. He reached for one of the command pads embedded in the wall, and Quentin noticed the subtle prick of the director's finger. A drop of blood was drawn, and with a low hum, the doors began to slowly open.
The central server node wasn't what Quentin had anticipated. It was a strange amalgamation of the new and cutting-edge, wrapped around machines that seemed worn and weary—like life support sustaining something far past its prime. The high-tech exterior barely masked the age beneath, as if the system was straining to keep functioning, a relic trying to remain relevant in a world that had long since moved on.
It was a fusion of the divine and the manmade as if someone had asked his sister to construct an altar for God without ever seeing one. The room hummed with a soft, rhythmic pulse that reminded Quentin of steady breathing—calm, persistent, and strangely alive.
Server racks stretched toward the ceiling like towering monoliths, their blinking lights casting an otherworldly glow over the chamber. It felt like countless eyes were watching him and Templesmith, observing every movement with quiet intent.
At the heart of it all stood the node—a bizarre altar of wires, tangled yet methodically arranged, surrounded by old sticky notes with faded, handwritten scrawls. Computer screens flickered with lines of code and data, their soft light giving the impression of something alive lurking within the machine. Scattered around the node were small, personal objects—tokens of devotion. A worn-out photograph, a tiny figurine, a pendant—offerings to a god of light, metal, and code.
The scene was both chaotic and orderly, born out of a mix of neurosis and hope. It unsettled Quentin, filling him with an uneasy blend of fear and awe.
"What is this?" Quentin asked, glancing at the director. "This feels… unnecessary."
Templesmith, rather than taking offense, smiled with understanding. "It is, and yet it isn't. All of this is for Europa, but it's also for us. We've all lost something above, and most of us will never return to the surface. So we're left to find meaning beyond the war and the horrors that await us. By devoting ourselves to the care of Europa, perhaps we can one day bring about peace."
Quentin turned his gaze back to the server node, questioning whether such a thing was possible. He doubted it, but then again, what good was there in believing otherwise? His sister had believed that God would save him; perhaps it had, or maybe it was the god of Operation Facility 01—Europa—that had saved Quentin Voss.
He didn't know. And he didn't care to know. "I'm not going to call this nonsense, but I'll take your word for it. I want this war to end and Europa to win it. If this helps, I'm ready to do whatever it takes."
Templesmith looked exceedingly pleased by this response. "You'll go far here, I'm certain of it. Keep that spirit alive, my friend. Take care of Europa, and it will take care of you."
The Director gestured toward the node. "Go on. Take a closer look. Perhaps you'll understand why our salvation may only come through it in time."
Quentin hesitated, then stepped forward. He approached the central node. It looked tired, worn out, and obsolete, yet it was still here. People had come to depend on it, not just in this facility but across Europa. This was the unknown soul of the nation and its people—a god in waiting.
"I don't believe in you." He muttered, more to himself than anything, "But if you are listening, if you actually care about anything we do, then do something to help us."
He reached under his shirt, yanked off the cross that his sister had given him…and hung it up among the many other offerings and trinkets left behind by many others. It was a hopeless gesture. This facility would be his home and tomb, and Quentin made peace with that knowledge.
The supposed god before him said and did nothing upon receiving the offering.
Strangely? Quentin Voss did not feel afraid anymore.
"I will pursue the heavens through them. I shall be granted wisdom unending by them. I can only be free with their blessing. But only through my hands shall they be made." - Hymn of Duty, Europan Manual (Unofficial)
—
—
Quentin Voss knew fear. It had been a constant companion, lurking in the shadows of his life, but he wasn't special in that regard. Many knew only fear these days, alongside despair, hunger, and thirst. He had been spared those longings. Yet, no one could escape the war seemingly consuming the world.
As a boy, he had watched the Prison City of Fulsum burn, leveled by Eurasia bombers during the Black Summer Campaign. The memory of that day still haunted him—his family's desperate flight to the Sacrifice, whose defense network kept the city safe while thousands of others perished in the hellfire. They were among the lucky few, but even in their survival, the scars of that day lingered.
Years later, at eighteen, fear gripped Quentin again when he was called into service for Europa. It was a fact of life now. Conscription was commonplace, especially for those who scored "substandard" on their aptitude tests and evaluations. The fate of many before him and many more soon after.
Most of his family was gone by then, and only his older sister remained. She had prayed for his safety, her faith unshaken even as the world crumbled around them, desperately clinging to old mysticism in hopes of saving her little brother. His sister gave him her old cross and told Quentin to keep it on him. It would be bad for him to meet God without it.
Yet, fate had its cruel ironies. While Quentin was resettled in Lost Angels, his company preparing to be sent into the ruined frontlines, his sister succumbed to a Plastic Lung outbreak that ravaged their bloc. God hadn't saved her. Hadn't saved anyone.
He was alone, but so was most of everyone else in his company. Quentin felt pity for the conscripts that had someone waiting for them. Although perhaps it was also jealousy over the fact they did. There was nothing left for him.
But something would come to save Quentin.
His first and only battle as a conscript felt like an eternity trapped in chaos. The skirmishes in Lost Angels blurred into a nightmare of gunfire and smoke. Amid the confusion, Quentin stumbled upon an old terminal connected to the local network. As a child, he'd had a knack for computers, but life had never allowed him to nurture that talent. Yet, in that moment, instinct took over.
Quentin was desperate. Every command, every backdoor trick he knew failed him. Panic set in, and in his despair, he found himself praying—not to any god he believed in, but to anyone or anything that might save him, even if it was one of the cursed machines that ruled this place.
To his shock, the screen in front of him flickered, and suddenly, access was granted. The local camera and ID network appeared before his eyes. With trembling hands, Quentin stumbled upon a discovery that changed everything—a map, more accurate and up-to-date than anything his company had. This information turned the tide of the battle, enabling his unit to survive and even capture an old bunker.
Though begrudgingly impressed, his captain recommended Quentin be reassigned to the rear lines. "You fell through the cracks in your aptitude tests," the captain remarked, his tone a blend of irritation and reluctant respect.
Quentin wasn't sure if it had been divine intervention or simply a stroke of luck, but he found himself pulled from the front lines by forces beyond his understanding, armed with only his modest tech skills and a strange twist of fate. They told him he was sent to the rear to assist with technical support on the local server networks—an otherwise mundane but vital task.
But that seemed to be a cover for something.
Quentin was barely a week into his evaluation when the Europan Intelligence Division soon came calling. They interrogated him, scrutinizing every detail of his life, following up with an invasive body scan and a mental evaluation. Quentin was certain he had failed miserably when they actually tested his technical skills.
He fully expected the EID operatives to take him out back and execute him for wasting their time on what must have seemed like a fluke.
Yet, when he returned, they handed him a "satisfactory" rank. He barely had time to process this before a black hood was thrust over his head. They told him it was standard procedure for anyone being taken to the central server networks for Europa's California network.
The journey seemed to stretch on for hours. Quentin felt every jolt and turn of the truck as it traveled uneven roads, the hood's darkness heightening his disorientation. When the vehicle finally came to a stop, he was unceremoniously escorted out, his guards guiding him through what felt like a labyrinth. After what seemed like another eternity, they entered what Quentin assumed to be an elevator, descending deep into the earth. That didn't surprise him; no one would be foolish enough to house vital technology on the surface, where it could be easily bombed.
When the elevator finally halted, and the hood was removed, Quentin blinked in surprise. He was standing in a small, sparse living space—unexpectedly comfortable, with all the basic amenities. His guards told him to wait for his superior's arrival and promptly sealed him inside.
It wasn't the spartan furnishings that caught Quentin off guard but the details. The sink offered clean, running water—an almost forgotten luxury in these times—and no timers or limiters were attached. Other minor conveniences, like a working personal computer and a microwave, were also present, all functioning without restriction. Quentin barely had time to inspect them before a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. "Mr. Voss, so nice to finally meet you. I am Director of Operations Lucas Templesmith."
Templesmith looked ancient—perhaps in his seventies- a remarkable feat considering the harsh realities of their world. Reaching such an age was almost unheard of when most people struggled to survive into their sixties. Quentin couldn't help but wonder what the man had endured to make it this far.
The director greeted him with formal politeness and quickly got to the point. Quentin was now part of an experimental program for prospective cyber-engineers and technicians—those who would aid Europa in the war effort by tending to the machines that had become their salvation and burden.
"We rely on Europa for so much these days, Mr. Voss. It's only fitting that we take care of it in return," Director Templesmith began, his tone measured. "You are now in one of the central server facilities—an essential hub for our operations. I must inform you, however, that this will be your permanent stationing. What this entails will be revealed gradually over the next few weeks."
Templesmith gave Quentin a moment to absorb the information, even allowing him an hour to process it if needed. But Quentin quickly responded, explaining that he had no one left on the surface, so being stationed underground wasn't the worst fate he could imagine. He then expressed his doubts, admitting that his technical knowledge was limited and questioning how much help he could really be here.
The director's lips curled into a faint, amused smile. "A sound mind is valuable, Mr. Voss, but quick hands and nerves of steel are equally important here. You've already demonstrated both in battle, and I have no doubt you'll find your place within these walls. There are… well, let's just say there are things you'll come to understand in time."
With that, Director Templesmith invited Quentin to follow him, explaining that he needed to complete one more evaluation before becoming a full team member. Quentin braced himself for another interrogation or a sterile meeting room, but instead, the Director led him on a tour of "Operations Facility 01."
"We're just one of many facilities," Templesmith remarked as they walked, his voice steady. "But this place—this is where Europa, the system itself, made some of its most pivotal decisions. We're not an afterthought or an adjunct. We are an integral part of the greater whole. Always remember that."
Quentin couldn't quite grasp the full significance of what Templesmith was saying, but the weight of it hung in the air. As they approached a massive set of blast doors, curiosity got the better of him. "Where are we?" he asked.
Templesmith paused, a faint, almost reverent smile playing on his lips. "At the temple gates," he replied, his tone filled with the pride of someone about to unveil something extraordinary. He reached for one of the command pads embedded in the wall, and Quentin noticed the subtle prick of the director's finger. A drop of blood was drawn, and with a low hum, the doors began to slowly open.
The central server node wasn't what Quentin had anticipated. It was a strange amalgamation of the new and cutting-edge, wrapped around machines that seemed worn and weary—like life support sustaining something far past its prime. The high-tech exterior barely masked the age beneath, as if the system was straining to keep functioning, a relic trying to remain relevant in a world that had long since moved on.
It was a fusion of the divine and the manmade as if someone had asked his sister to construct an altar for God without ever seeing one. The room hummed with a soft, rhythmic pulse that reminded Quentin of steady breathing—calm, persistent, and strangely alive.
Server racks stretched toward the ceiling like towering monoliths, their blinking lights casting an otherworldly glow over the chamber. It felt like countless eyes were watching him and Templesmith, observing every movement with quiet intent.
At the heart of it all stood the node—a bizarre altar of wires, tangled yet methodically arranged, surrounded by old sticky notes with faded, handwritten scrawls. Computer screens flickered with lines of code and data, their soft light giving the impression of something alive lurking within the machine. Scattered around the node were small, personal objects—tokens of devotion. A worn-out photograph, a tiny figurine, a pendant—offerings to a god of light, metal, and code.
The scene was both chaotic and orderly, born out of a mix of neurosis and hope. It unsettled Quentin, filling him with an uneasy blend of fear and awe.
"What is this?" Quentin asked, glancing at the director. "This feels… unnecessary."
Templesmith, rather than taking offense, smiled with understanding. "It is, and yet it isn't. All of this is for Europa, but it's also for us. We've all lost something above, and most of us will never return to the surface. So we're left to find meaning beyond the war and the horrors that await us. By devoting ourselves to the care of Europa, perhaps we can one day bring about peace."
Quentin turned his gaze back to the server node, questioning whether such a thing was possible. He doubted it, but then again, what good was there in believing otherwise? His sister had believed that God would save him; perhaps it had, or maybe it was the god of Operation Facility 01—Europa—that had saved Quentin Voss.
He didn't know. And he didn't care to know. "I'm not going to call this nonsense, but I'll take your word for it. I want this war to end and Europa to win it. If this helps, I'm ready to do whatever it takes."
Templesmith looked exceedingly pleased by this response. "You'll go far here, I'm certain of it. Keep that spirit alive, my friend. Take care of Europa, and it will take care of you."
The Director gestured toward the node. "Go on. Take a closer look. Perhaps you'll understand why our salvation may only come through it in time."
Quentin hesitated, then stepped forward. He approached the central node. It looked tired, worn out, and obsolete, yet it was still here. People had come to depend on it, not just in this facility but across Europa. This was the unknown soul of the nation and its people—a god in waiting.
"I don't believe in you." He muttered, more to himself than anything, "But if you are listening, if you actually care about anything we do, then do something to help us."
He reached under his shirt, yanked off the cross that his sister had given him…and hung it up among the many other offerings and trinkets left behind by many others. It was a hopeless gesture. This facility would be his home and tomb, and Quentin made peace with that knowledge.
The supposed god before him said and did nothing upon receiving the offering.
Strangely? Quentin Voss did not feel afraid anymore.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Well, well, well, looks like you are lucky.
Fremont Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 99
Richmond Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 45
Palmdale Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 63
Crucible Point Installation, Sierra Nevada: Military Production Capacity - 40
Fremont Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 99
Richmond Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 45
Palmdale Underground Factory: Military Production Capacity - 63
Crucible Point Installation, Sierra Nevada: Military Production Capacity - 40
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It could theoretically make everything: command crawlers, mechs, exos, hypersonic jets, cruise missiles.
Why it largely hasn't, who knows...
Why it largely hasn't, who knows...
Someone placed a decimal instead of a comma.
- Location
- USA
Now to see if it can produce all that all at once or if it needs to retool between jobs, Fremont could probably kickstart a massive improvement across the board to every unit we have if we get it rolling properly.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I think I need to at some point actually write down what units you have access to. Let's start with a list
Conscript Infantry
Conscript Armor
EAAF Infantry
EXO
Medium mech
Heavy mech
Command crawler
Attack helicopter
Recon UAV
Hypersonic Jet
Conscript Infantry
Conscript Armor
EAAF Infantry
EXO
Medium mech
Heavy mech
Command crawler
Attack helicopter
Recon UAV
Hypersonic Jet
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Abrams and older, what else
Well can see the Abrams still being good with Euraska still using old t whatever numbers but feel bad for the boys and girls that have to use it and much older stuff against units that has a mech or more.
Before [Canon]
Rockeye
Plausible Engineer
- Location
- Midwestern U.S.
Omake - Before
Before. Before Europa. Before Euraska. Before Eurasia. Before the forever winter.
Some people think such a time never existed, and the world has been this way forever- A hell where you do not matter, where the grand systems all around grind and churn and fight and scrap and rebuild and grind. Where the wheel turns ever on, inexorable.
Yumi thinks that the Before is real. Her great-grandmother managed to survive... Everything. She was a withered crone, before she passed, over half wrinkle by weight, or so her childish self thought... And Grandmama said that there was a Before. She painted it with her low, steady voice, the idea that there could be rest, quiet, little beautiful things tucked into corners. Not like the Night Shift's constructions, monuments of twisted concept, but small paintings, toys, or photographs. Yumi has dreams about the Before, sometimes. No doubt what she thinks she knows is... Incredibly inaccurate. She's working from fragments, and everything her mind knows is the danger and chaos of the Now.
She is a collector. Rare, precious remnants of Before- It's always tricky to find them, to piece them together and rescue them from cook-fires, from the recycler, from deletion by automated data scrubbing, passed down in tales from grandmothers who heard it from their grandmothers. She only has a few. Some of them probably aren't REALLY from Before. Little things, preserved by luck, like a pinhole peek through a wall to observe part of the terrain outside, trying to understand the shape of it from a narrow glimpse...
A half-corrupted screen shot saved off an old computer, of a few strange icons and a hill covered in tiny little plants, so dense the entire thing is green, and a vibrant blue sky with only bare wisps of clouds. The colors on it are so dense that it looks fake.
Did such a place really exist? What purpose could it serve?
Buried deep within a crushed, forgotten office- A small plastic pen, the ink long dried out. It has a little picture of a tooth on it and says 'Dr. Kleen Tooth Care - Dental Service with a Smile!'.
People still know to brush their teeth, when they can. Docs will replace them when they wear out, or if they're hurting you too much to go on. But having an entire job that's JUST caring for teeth...? Extravagant.
There's more, most of it less informative. A wooden toy horse with child-sized bite marks. A fragment of a glass bottle that says 'Coca-Co-'. A text log of someone trying to get laid, pulled from a mangled database somewhere through grepping, with a casual reference to something called a 'movie theater'. A metal disk with a man's face and some sort of biological UAV, and the words 'Liberty', 'United States of America' 'Quarter Dollar' '1996'. A rusty storage tin labelled 'Altoids', with a flaky painting that might be a lake or might be a storm-cloud on the inside roof.
Most precious of all, a burned fragment of a book. It's half-decayed, the pages are nearly unreadable. Only a few passages are discernable. The title- "Caring for Young Children". Some of the passages...
Well. They imply a world where things were better in ways she can't imagine. Where a child could casually eat dozens of different, exotic treats like 'banana' or 'donuts' or 'chicken'. Where the greatest imaginable danger is the kid falling and hitting their head, because enough food, warmth, medicine is taken for granted.
This only reinforces her decision to never give birth. The Europan doctors wouldn't help her with that- Every child is precious to Europa, after all! Aren't you loyal? Aren't you going to help bring up the next generation?
So she left. Yumi no longer serves Europa. She is but a scavenger, that strained community living one disaster away from death, walking in search of things small and beautiful.
Before. Before Europa. Before Euraska. Before Eurasia. Before the forever winter.
Some people think such a time never existed, and the world has been this way forever- A hell where you do not matter, where the grand systems all around grind and churn and fight and scrap and rebuild and grind. Where the wheel turns ever on, inexorable.
Yumi thinks that the Before is real. Her great-grandmother managed to survive... Everything. She was a withered crone, before she passed, over half wrinkle by weight, or so her childish self thought... And Grandmama said that there was a Before. She painted it with her low, steady voice, the idea that there could be rest, quiet, little beautiful things tucked into corners. Not like the Night Shift's constructions, monuments of twisted concept, but small paintings, toys, or photographs. Yumi has dreams about the Before, sometimes. No doubt what she thinks she knows is... Incredibly inaccurate. She's working from fragments, and everything her mind knows is the danger and chaos of the Now.
She is a collector. Rare, precious remnants of Before- It's always tricky to find them, to piece them together and rescue them from cook-fires, from the recycler, from deletion by automated data scrubbing, passed down in tales from grandmothers who heard it from their grandmothers. She only has a few. Some of them probably aren't REALLY from Before. Little things, preserved by luck, like a pinhole peek through a wall to observe part of the terrain outside, trying to understand the shape of it from a narrow glimpse...
A half-corrupted screen shot saved off an old computer, of a few strange icons and a hill covered in tiny little plants, so dense the entire thing is green, and a vibrant blue sky with only bare wisps of clouds. The colors on it are so dense that it looks fake.
Did such a place really exist? What purpose could it serve?
Buried deep within a crushed, forgotten office- A small plastic pen, the ink long dried out. It has a little picture of a tooth on it and says 'Dr. Kleen Tooth Care - Dental Service with a Smile!'.
People still know to brush their teeth, when they can. Docs will replace them when they wear out, or if they're hurting you too much to go on. But having an entire job that's JUST caring for teeth...? Extravagant.
There's more, most of it less informative. A wooden toy horse with child-sized bite marks. A fragment of a glass bottle that says 'Coca-Co-'. A text log of someone trying to get laid, pulled from a mangled database somewhere through grepping, with a casual reference to something called a 'movie theater'. A metal disk with a man's face and some sort of biological UAV, and the words 'Liberty', 'United States of America' 'Quarter Dollar' '1996'. A rusty storage tin labelled 'Altoids', with a flaky painting that might be a lake or might be a storm-cloud on the inside roof.
Most precious of all, a burned fragment of a book. It's half-decayed, the pages are nearly unreadable. Only a few passages are discernable. The title- "Caring for Young Children". Some of the passages...
Well. They imply a world where things were better in ways she can't imagine. Where a child could casually eat dozens of different, exotic treats like 'banana' or 'donuts' or 'chicken'. Where the greatest imaginable danger is the kid falling and hitting their head, because enough food, warmth, medicine is taken for granted.
This only reinforces her decision to never give birth. The Europan doctors wouldn't help her with that- Every child is precious to Europa, after all! Aren't you loyal? Aren't you going to help bring up the next generation?
So she left. Yumi no longer serves Europa. She is but a scavenger, that strained community living one disaster away from death, walking in search of things small and beautiful.
- Location
- USA
This and nothing else drives me to want to put at least some die into unfucking the enclaves one at a time, Even if its not the most efficient I do think alongside unclogging the Fremont factory will give us the slack necessary to perform at least perfunctory improvements to each Enclave and to our entire population base.
- Pronouns
- They/Their
I assume the Exos have completely replaced Tanks as Armored support for Conventional forces?
And no Transports for anyone?
Angle
Release Candidate Enby
- Location
- Colorado, USA
- Pronouns
- They/Them/Theirs/Comrade
I would find it amusing if they had, like, a completely nonsense mix of weapons from different places - soviet designs next to french ones vs american ones next to chinese ones, or designs that were perverse mixups of elements from soviet and american designs, or what have you. You know, truly cursed stuff. XD
Our faction is a mix of North and South America and Europe, the African Russians have the t whatever number tanks.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The tunnel was dimly lit, the cold glow of flickering neon tubes powered with solten power barely cutting through the underground dakrness. It smelled of stale air, sweat, and desperation, like everything else in the ruins of what was once California. Crammed beneath layers of collapsed buildings and twisted steel, the scav town was one of many settlements known to those with nowhere else to go.
Tara clutched the bundle tightly to her chest, her hands trembling as she stepped carefully over uneven ground. The baby whimpered but stayed asleep, his tiny face pressed into the folds of the ragged blanket. Beside her, Luka walked silently, his face set in grim determination. They had rehearsed this moment in their heads over and over, but now that it was here, everything felt tense.
Ahead, in a small side tunnel, the agent waited.
He didn't look like an Europan officer, embassy agents never did. Europan Command's shoot on sight orders for illegals hardly made them popular in all circles. There were no uniforms, no gleaming badges or flags, the scavs trust towards those was limited, no matter what nation they represented. He was just an old man in a dark coat, hands tucked into the pockets as he leaned against the crumbling wall, glancing at an old datapad. He looked jaded and hardened, someone who could do the job without drawing too much attention, without asking too many questions.
The agent looked up as they approached, his face impassive. "You've brought the child?"
Tara swallowed hard, her heart aching as if something inside her was being torn apart. She nodded, lifting the baby gently, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should have. Luka stepped forward, pulling a pair of cryptographic sticks from his jacket pocket. He held them out, the tremor in his hands barely concealed.
"Every last bit we could pull together. That's enough, isn't it?" Luka's voice cracked slightly as he spoke.
The agent took the sticks without comment, sliding them into a scanner on his datapad. Numbers flashed across the screen, verifying the content. He gave a small nod, then met their eyes.
"We have a deal."
Tara exhaled a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, but the relief was hollow. She looked down at her son, so small and innocent in a world that had already tried to swallow him whole. His tiny fist curled around her finger, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his blanket.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "He'll be safe? You'll get him inside the enclave?"
The agent's face softened, just for a moment. He glanced at the child before turning his gaze back to Tara. "Yes. He's already in the system. A valid Europan ID has been forged. He'll grow up inside the walls."
Luka put an arm around Tara's shoulders, squeezing gently, but his own eyes were rimmed with unshed tears. "And… us? Will he… ever know? Who his real parents are?"
The agent shook his head. "He can never know, too dangerous. Command has blindspots you can exploit, but only if you are careful. As far as anyone inside is concerned, he'll be the child of a Europan couple. His new life will begin the moment I hand him over."
Tara let out a sob, her tears falling silently onto the baby's face. He stirred, his little eyes opening for just a moment, blinking up at her as if sensing her pain. She pressed her lips to his forehead, closing her eyes and breathing him in, memorizing the weight of him in her arms.
"Goodbye, little one," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Be strong, Jack… be safe."
Luka turned away, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He couldn't watch this part. It was too much, even for him. The agent stepped forward, reaching out for the child. Tara hesitated, her arms instinctively tightening around her son. But then, with a final, heartbreaking breath, she placed him gently into the agent's arms. He cradled the baby carefully, adjusting the blanket to cover his face. For a moment, the three of them stood there in silence, the air thick with sorrow.
"I'll make sure he's taken care of," the agent said softly. "You did the right thing. He'll grow up under Europa's watch."
Tara nodded, unable to speak. With a final glance, the agent turned and walked back down the tunnel, the baby's small form barely visible in the dim light. Tara and Luka watched as he disappeared into the darkness. They stood there in silence for a long time, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like the ruins above their heads. It was done.
Luka finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse. "We did the right thing, didn't we?"
Tara nodded, though her heart screamed otherwise. "He'll be safe. The enclaves always have enough water. That's all that matters."
They turned and began to walk back through the tunnel, their steps slow and heavy. As they walked, Tara reached for Luka's hand, gripping it tightly.
"He'll live, Luka," she whispered. "He'll live..."
Their son would live. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Tara clutched the bundle tightly to her chest, her hands trembling as she stepped carefully over uneven ground. The baby whimpered but stayed asleep, his tiny face pressed into the folds of the ragged blanket. Beside her, Luka walked silently, his face set in grim determination. They had rehearsed this moment in their heads over and over, but now that it was here, everything felt tense.
Ahead, in a small side tunnel, the agent waited.
He didn't look like an Europan officer, embassy agents never did. Europan Command's shoot on sight orders for illegals hardly made them popular in all circles. There were no uniforms, no gleaming badges or flags, the scavs trust towards those was limited, no matter what nation they represented. He was just an old man in a dark coat, hands tucked into the pockets as he leaned against the crumbling wall, glancing at an old datapad. He looked jaded and hardened, someone who could do the job without drawing too much attention, without asking too many questions.
The agent looked up as they approached, his face impassive. "You've brought the child?"
Tara swallowed hard, her heart aching as if something inside her was being torn apart. She nodded, lifting the baby gently, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should have. Luka stepped forward, pulling a pair of cryptographic sticks from his jacket pocket. He held them out, the tremor in his hands barely concealed.
"Every last bit we could pull together. That's enough, isn't it?" Luka's voice cracked slightly as he spoke.
The agent took the sticks without comment, sliding them into a scanner on his datapad. Numbers flashed across the screen, verifying the content. He gave a small nod, then met their eyes.
"We have a deal."
Tara exhaled a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, but the relief was hollow. She looked down at her son, so small and innocent in a world that had already tried to swallow him whole. His tiny fist curled around her finger, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his blanket.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "He'll be safe? You'll get him inside the enclave?"
The agent's face softened, just for a moment. He glanced at the child before turning his gaze back to Tara. "Yes. He's already in the system. A valid Europan ID has been forged. He'll grow up inside the walls."
Luka put an arm around Tara's shoulders, squeezing gently, but his own eyes were rimmed with unshed tears. "And… us? Will he… ever know? Who his real parents are?"
The agent shook his head. "He can never know, too dangerous. Command has blindspots you can exploit, but only if you are careful. As far as anyone inside is concerned, he'll be the child of a Europan couple. His new life will begin the moment I hand him over."
Tara let out a sob, her tears falling silently onto the baby's face. He stirred, his little eyes opening for just a moment, blinking up at her as if sensing her pain. She pressed her lips to his forehead, closing her eyes and breathing him in, memorizing the weight of him in her arms.
"Goodbye, little one," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Be strong, Jack… be safe."
Luka turned away, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He couldn't watch this part. It was too much, even for him. The agent stepped forward, reaching out for the child. Tara hesitated, her arms instinctively tightening around her son. But then, with a final, heartbreaking breath, she placed him gently into the agent's arms. He cradled the baby carefully, adjusting the blanket to cover his face. For a moment, the three of them stood there in silence, the air thick with sorrow.
"I'll make sure he's taken care of," the agent said softly. "You did the right thing. He'll grow up under Europa's watch."
Tara nodded, unable to speak. With a final glance, the agent turned and walked back down the tunnel, the baby's small form barely visible in the dim light. Tara and Luka watched as he disappeared into the darkness. They stood there in silence for a long time, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like the ruins above their heads. It was done.
Luka finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse. "We did the right thing, didn't we?"
Tara nodded, though her heart screamed otherwise. "He'll be safe. The enclaves always have enough water. That's all that matters."
They turned and began to walk back through the tunnel, their steps slow and heavy. As they walked, Tara reached for Luka's hand, gripping it tightly.
"He'll live, Luka," she whispered. "He'll live..."
Their son would live. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Last edited:
chaotic-logic
possible impossibility
- Location
- unknown
make sure to thread mark that
We will try to makes things better... or at least more bearable for the people under our territory.
Components work better when they have better rations. - productivity ai algorithm