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Posts posted by Orwell
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FEDERAL COUNCIL BUILDING STORMED!
ORTIZ RECEIVES VOTE OF NO CONFIDENCE
WROCLAW APPOINTED SUCCESSOR; 112th TO RECEIVE PARDON
Vigil's Point on Sunday night, approximately an hour before the incident. Police and Federal Fleet grounded all air traffic out of the capital once authorities realized what was going on at the Federal Council Building.
VIGIL'S POINT, ISKANDER ‒ The Federal Council's late-night hearing over Cassandra's fiscal contingency was interrupted on Sunday by members of the 112th; the celebrated military unit turned fugitive after supposedly acting independently of orders to set in motion the events that lead to the Third Bug War. The members taken into custody were identified as Sebastian Bently, Roger Espinoza, Thomas Lawson, and Lionel Mercier. Upon the floor, they stated they had evidence that the 112th had been following orders issued by Sky Marshal Ortiz at the time. At the same time, the damning recordings of the events obtained through the Ulysses Grant's black box were being received by millions; the genesis of the signal being traced to the OMS Deep Transmission Array on one of Faraway's moons.
The floor of the Federal Council Building.
These revelations sent murmurs through the Council, culminating in a hearing and subsequent majority vote of no confidence in Ortiz three days later- something which hasn't occurred since before the destruction of Buenos Aires. After a timeline was established of the 112th's whereabouts and audio analysis had finished, citizens and civilians alike who claimed to have interacted with the unit came forth to testify to their conduct. Interestingly enough, one of the testifying members was Maj. Miguel Romero of the 44th Moritas, who were tasked with bringing the 112th to justice. Romero made brief comments about his interactions with the unit, and spoke to their quality of character in high regard. Despite this, many members of the Council criticized the 112th's actions, but many were inclined to defend them in light of their circumstances.
Once the hearing concluded, the Council held a vote of no confidence for Sky Marshal Ortiz, who denied wrongdoing. After a majority vote, Ortiz was forced to resign. The Council decided to appoint Councillor Viktor Wroclaw of Arcadia to succeed her. Wroclaw stated that he is fully prepared for the task at hand; with the Third Bug War claiming more lives by the day, he reaffirmed his commitment to preserving the Federation and safeguarding the human race. It is expected that the 112th is to receive a pardon in the days to come as more garrisons are diverted towards the AQZ to bolster besieged colonies. We were unable to get a statement from the unit's representatives, as their location is now considered a matter of internal security.
Are you interested in helping restore the Federation?
Are you skilled in the following:
- Electronics
- Engineering
- Medicine
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Contact your LOCAL ENLISTMENT CENTER and ASK ABOUT HELPING THE FEDERATION
TODAY
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SpoilerBEGINS 9:00 PM GMT 6/29 - 30
Nobody escapes judgement.
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BLOODY CONFRONTATION BETWEEN MOBILE INFANTRY AND FUGITIVE 112th; ONE ARREST MADE
MOUNT MAVILE, NEW VETANIA ‒ In a masterful operation that was the product of months of investigation, Mobile Infantry and Fleet elements near Mount Mavile on New Vetania have apprehended a suspect believed to be directly involved with the infamous 112th. After a deadly firefight in the foggy streets of Mount Mavile, the suspect was left wounded at the scene and was arrested shortly after the rest of the 112th fled the scene. The suspect has been identified as one Edward Vang; a Terran ex-Mobile Infantryman with an unremarkable military history. His records show that he enlisted on Sanctuary, shortly after the end of the Civil War. Despite their best efforts, the 112th managed to escape, leaving a trail of dead Mobile Infantry in their wake.
The suspect is currently being rehabilitated in an undisclosed military hospital vessel under heavy guard. According to the doctors, the fact that Mr. Vang has survived his wounds as long has he has is remarkable on its own. Concerned MI onlookers peer through the operating theater windows.
The ambush was spearheaded largely by Major Miguel Romero, officially tasked with bringing the 112th to justice several months ago. The suspect, unfortunately, sustained critical wounds during the engagement between the 112th and Major Romero's men. We managed to speak with Major Romero, who had this to say:
"The issue of the matter is whether or not Mr. Vang has any intelligence that will assist us in our hunt for the command of the 112th. Right now, his condition is too critical to entertain any ideas of psychic probing. The doctors are working their hardest to get him into an acceptable state. If he pulls through, hopefully we'll be able to utilize him to bring us closer to holding the right people accountable. We'll keep our fingers crossed."
The comatose suspect is currently being rehabilitated using biotank therapy, but the doctors present were reluctant to say whether his condition would worsen, even with their most cutting-edge faculties. As the Third Bug War rages, those responsible for its transgressions will be brought to the full extent of the law. With a member of the 112th in custody, the Federation is one step closer to achieving justice for the countless lives lost on Tango Urilla.
Are you interested in helping restore the Federation?
Are you skilled in the following:
- Electronics
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- Medicine
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Contact your LOCAL ENLISTMENT CENTER and ASK ABOUT HELPING THE FEDERATION
TODAY
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St. Lawrence, Cassandra. Members of the 204th Moritas rush to lick their wounds after sustained fighting.
CASSANDRA, CASSANDRA ‒ As the planet approaches the turn of the century, Cassandra has found itself as the setting for vicious fighting once more. This most recent Arachnid offensive following the disaster on Tango Urilla has resulted in Cassandra's falling under siege with renewed vigor. After making significant strides against the endemic Arachnid population last year, the self-named capitol now finds itself within range of bloodthirsty Arachnids.
Combined forces from the 204th and the 95th working to prepare evacuation zones for civilians in the Deston Wash.
"Very hot, very dry, and very unforgiving."
Sgt. Marie Cristobal clears sand from the receiver of her Morita.
"They're bolstered, now, and they're making quick work of a lot of good men and women."
Sgt. Cristobal and her unit were formerly stationed in Spain, working alongside civilians to rehabilitate Barcelona.
When the Tango Urilla disaster occurred, her unit was one of the many called out to face the Arachnid threat.
"I'm lucky, I fought Bugs on Dionysus not too long before we were sent to earth. Our unit was split, with one half working Terra, an' the other working Mars. A lot of the rookies we get haven't had the pleasure of going toe-to-toe with Bugs until Cassandra."
Sgt. Cristobal knocks the remaining dust out of one of the Moritas.
A train of troops marches across the dusty streets of Cassandra, carrying their wounded in slings and stretchers.
With many areas of the planet subject to evacuation orders, the residents of Cassandra are no strangers to upheaval and hardship.
The elephant in the room remains; the prolific 112th once played an instrumental role in subduing Arachnids on Cassandra in 2298.
Now in a fugitive state, troopers like LCpl. Tyrese Wilkes feels resentment toward the outlaws;
"It's a travesty, man. We need all the guns we can, and when we need 'em most, they're gone."
Arachnids have entrenched themselves in Cassandra's poles, where temperatures can drop to as low as -50°C.
Gen. Florian Schmidt has assumed command of operations on Cassandra. When asked to comment on the situation, he had this to say.
"The situation on the ground is not a pleasant one; Arachnids have entrenched themselves with incredible speed, and have made maintaining logistical connections between Mobile Infantry assets difficult. They think that they can break us, and try and make us have Cassandra go the way of Dionysus or Percy's Landing, but our resolve has never been stronger. If the Arachnids want it, they're going to have to work for it."
Are you interested in helping restore the Federation?
Are you skilled in the following:
- Electronics
- Engineering
- Medicine
- Computer Science
- Construction
- Agriculture
- Transportation
- Logistics
- Microbiology
- Humanitarian Aid
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Contact your LOCAL ENLISTMENT CENTER and ASK ABOUT HELPING THE FEDERATION
TODAY
Would you like to know more?
-
Spoiler
"Is it true?"
Rows of shaved heads and drab jumpsuits.
High, high ceilings and bright lights gleaming down.
Baumer used to be a ground sergeant, but he was a sniveling boy now.
He said they got his people outside of Achilles, after a TAC strike had killed their command.
His slimy eyeballs rolled around to each of their faces.
"She's not really dead, is she?"
People looked around. The jangling of bindings.
"That's what they're saying. The Sky Marshal, you know? Do you? Has anyone..."
It could be a tactic, sure. But, at this point it didn't really matter whether they had killed her or not.
Either way, they were in custody. They had done everything they could at this point.
The last great hurrah was to be had at Sanctuary.
Deep down, he knew that the fight was basically over.
The only delusion to entertain was solely for the sake of the men.
For the weepy-eyed Baumers.
Big guy jabs his stump into Baumer's back, and his shackles jangle.
"You keep your mouth shut, sayin' things you don't know."
They picked him up near Parson's Rest.
They were waiting in the bush. That's how he lost his hand.
They were all in line, waiting to be deprogrammed.
"You're being quiet, Lieutenant."
"Things may pretty grim, but..."
Another group was sent in beyond the door into a large hall.
"As long as Sanctuary stands, we'll hide our face and bear it. The best we can hope for is fairness. Stay strong, and remember your training."
He hated the sound of the words leaving his mouth.
Anyone with eyes could see the writing on the wall.
If Carson were still alive, there would...
No, it's much too much.
SpoilerShe was alive. They found her, half-unconscious in a pod with her cadre.
He watched the flickering screen, showing the Ark cut through both fleets like a sheet of paper.
A glittering battlefield suspended in space.
That massive station, slamming into the earth.
They found out in the evening, during dinner.
They had her in custody, and she was expected to surrender.
He felt relieved.
He felt angry that he felt relieved.
His principles were discarded, and his muse was as dead as the thousands above Sanctuary.
He was ashamed, but he couldn't help it.
So much had been lost, it felt like a never-ending nightmare had finally ended, and a new one began.
Now more than ever, he missed her.
Nothing would be the same, now.
Everything had been severed, and they were floating away.
Spoiler"He's been demoted since, sir."
An air of unease had enveloped the complex; the garrison was assembled in lines, tired from having been berated and
Fort Armstrong was crawling with his men, holding up orderlies. The whole are had been shut down.
He was going over the log, running down the list with his finger until he met it.
"This is the one?"
"Yes sir. No such person. We've run inventory a dozen times, trying to make sure we didn't miss anything else.
As far as we know, it was just the lithium."
"I see. We're going to be bringing the involved parties along for questioning. We'll send them back on a shuttle once we're finished. I appreciate your cooperation."
"...I apologize, sir. This is quite unbecoming, and the men have been severely reprimanded..."
"It could be a fluke, but my gut tells me otherwise. Either way..."
No, couldn't be. Too many arrows pointing in one direction. The developments are fitting together.
"Do you think they did it, Major? I mean- with Tango Urilla."
"I'm just in charge of bringing them in."
"Surely, sir, you've got an opinion?"
"No, I don't. You're pushing it. Like I said, your help's been appreciated, and we'll try and make this as painless as possible."
"Of course, sir. Understood, sir."
-
Spoiler
It had only been for a second, but in the howling basin it was over before it began.
His helmet went flying; by several accounts it should've taken his head off.
Immediately, the blood rushing from the side of his face.
Throbbing, stabbing pain paralyzing him in the dust.
Through clenched teeth, he screamed in agony.
He was seeing stars, and struggling to hold his skin to his sweaty head.
The Bugs around him were dead.
His bloody hands went down to his kit, fumbling for gauze.
"Romero! Romero, we're coming!"
The blinding sun of a penlight, swiveling over the iris.
Smack, smack.
He could feel them pressing against his head.
This was it.
Carson was there, directing the rest of the wounded's entourage.
Her fatigues were torn, and bandages wound up her left arm.
They were asking her something. His heart sunk.
He thought they might do it, for a brief moment.
Everything melted away soon enough.
Survival became prioritized above all else.
All he had to do was survive.
SpoilerA deep, cutting wind blew from offshore against the rocky outcroppings of alien rock jutting out of the churning sea.
The sky churned; gray and blue pillars highlighted by the flashing of lightning nestled within their massive forms.
Near the ship, the sky had opened up.
Dropships were buzzing around the beached carcass of the Voyager Liverpool.
The freighter had been found abandoned off the islands.
Delays of a day or so were not unusual on the shipping lines,
but inquiries were made after a week had passed.
The search was intensified in light of recent events.
All the pieces were coming together.
The deck was wet, and he stood outside in a glistening rubber poncho.
His mind went back to that chance encounter back in Sanctuary days.
What are you expecting to find, exactly?
Who?
The rooms had fallen into disrepair and neglect.
A far cry from those cozy battle cruisers.
To be blindsided.
It was a contradiction to him.
Maybe a mistake of some kind.
It didn't make sense.
This was the best way to figure out what happened.
Spoiler"Like this."
One follows the other. The first carries the stick.
The first jabs the soil with the stick.
The second drops the seeds, and packs the dirt with their foot.
"Ndiwe wosokonezeka."
Outpaced and outmatched, but at least his life wasn't at stake.
They needed all the help they could get.
There were many who passed out from the heat on those first weeks, including him.
They were side by side with people of all stripes.
Never had he seen so many different people from all over the galaxy.
Blight destroyed the crops, and everything had to be re-sown.
When they weren't on the reclaimed fields, they were out in the ruins on the border.
From the toppled shopping centers they could see the expansive network of row after row of polished prefabricated housing.
Nestled into what hadn't been leveled.
"I never thought I'd be doing something like this."
The voice came from the front. He was looking down, trying to cover the seeds with his boot.
"Part-time farmer. It makes sense, I guess."
"Shit, man. If I wanted to sow crops and dig ditches I woulda' stayed home."
They were flying in the massive combines nearby.
The sun wavered above the horizon. It was much easier to plant in the shade of the dusk or dawn.
Glossy light warbled off the chromatic chassis of the hulking equipment.
At night, they slept around the radio.
Berating, jeering, sympathizing and hoping.
He didn't mind the slower pace. The threat was not very far off, after all.
Seeing something besides death reminded him of what he was fighting for.
Regardless, the threatening image of scattering Arachnids danced around in their minds.
He overturned the soil, and saw wriggling rotten chords pulsating in the earth.
-
I do not remember how I got here.
I have been around for as long as there has been a time and a place to exist.
A fluttering series of images, spread across a million different worlds unrecognizable to mine own eye.
I have tried to make sense of these things, and have come to no avail.
Perhaps I exist to carry out some task.
My taskmasters, whoever they are, are not keen on communicating their desires.
I hardly know if the apparitions I see periodically are genuine or a figment of my scattered mind.
My actions to appease these unseen eyes are cut short at strange intervals;
a sudden loss of eyesight, a loss of sensation in my limbs.
A floating sensation in dark isolation.
I am left distraught, and confused.
Did I do something wrong?
I know now there is no sense to these lapses.
I could be in one place for two hours, and another for ten.
They have been with me as long as I have been with them.
I navigate these strange places, confounded by the constraints imposed on me by powers far beyond my understanding.
Sometimes, in the chaos, there are patterns.
Reoccurring images and archetypes.
Figures and voices in a dreamlike haze.
Even sound and music.
A group. Always a group.
Why my existence is tied with theirs in this strange place, I do not know.
Some of the faces I have seen before.
I even know some of their names.
They are cursed to bring conflict.
They come, and they leave.
Each time, I am bound to watch.
Their behavior is sporadic, and their maneuverings vary from place to place.
I have tried to interact with them on several occasions.
Each time, I am ignored.
My identity and purpose remains obscured; but I feel I am not alone.
Some urge within me that I am unable to explain.
An insistence that I am not the first to walk these worlds.
That I am the second of my kind.
My past is foreign to me, but this instinct remains.
I have nothing else to go on.
In this senseless world, I am driven to find my kin.
Someone who I can relate to in this strange existence.
Tomorrow is a new day, with the hopeful promise of a glimpse into
the shining light of truth in a world so swamped in darkness.
Spoiler"We'll set the stage for his arrival. Preparations have already been made for a route."
"All according to plan..."
"What else needs to be done?"
"The worst of it is over. All we need to do now is wait."
"As you wish...
...Bot 01."
-
Spoiler
"It's artificially stocked, of course."
"But of course."
The carp's gaping mouths opened and close at the surface as maize kernels pelt the water.
They thrash around, packing so tightly together that they roll on top of one another.
After a few moments, the splashing stops, and the carp disperse.
"Hardly the same, but, we all have to make do."
"Mmm."
The man was clad in Mobile Infantry dress, and had hardened scar tissue over a broad stretch of his head where no hair grew.
Maybe in his forties, he stood at the bank and looked at the reflection of Omnicron 2 Eridani on the water. Warped images of
looming civilian freighters pushed onto the liquid. Not too long ago, things were much different.
"I don't think I ever asked about the surrender."
"Most people don't."
His gloves were wet and warm as he tried to stem the bleeding. Lieutenant Carson's eyes began to roll around behind her lids. Great care was taken to not crush her larynx. Her face was quickly losing color as the boom of TAC engines shooting by sounded overhead. They had gotten so far, but all they had to show for it were corpses and spent rounds. She tried to speak, but there was only gurgling.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
"It's kind of a blur."
And in ways, it was. The chaos and confusion that followed reunification was reigned in by the Finch Act, but the trauma was just under the surface.
"You were here, no?"
"Not far from here. They've fixed Achilles up quite a bit since then."
The water ripples outwards, and refracts off the edges of the pond. The dark forms of the carp swirl beneath the surface.
"She must've been quite headstrong, staying after the order to retreat."
"I don't think any of us were expecting to live."
"And here you are, back again."
"The transition wasn't exactly the smoothest."
"You won't let your connection to her get in the way of this?"
"What do you mean? She was a fine leader. To the very end."
Another handful of maize is cast out onto the water. Again, the thrashing of the carp commences.
"Besides. She's our only connection to him. If anybody, why not me?"
The carp untangle from their massive knot, and spread out on the bottom of the pool.
SpoilerThings were different in Malawi. Operation Crocodile was coming to a close.
Life was slowly trickling back into Chikwawa.
The massive urban sprawl had sustained relatively low damage in comparison to other cities in southeast Africa.
Despite this, there was construction everywhere.
The sky was obscured with the smoggy verniers of ships; civilian and military.
A shadow of itself, but a bustling hive nonetheless.
The dry season had been hard, and yields were low.
Blights were frequent. The yams always came up shriveled, and the millet often died off before harvest.
Bodies tainted the soil.
Today was different.
There was much cause for celebration. It had been the first successful harvest since reconquest.
Gene and seedling banks left near the poles proved indispensable.
A large open venue with long tables and accommodation for hundreds.
The roaring rhythm of music and the smashing of glasses. Bitter stout staining the ground.
The sigh of hundreds.
For the first time in a while, there was a charge in the air that he hadn't felt for a long time.
It wasn't that long ago, he remembered.
His men beamed, arm-in-arm with locals, singing and dancing.
Months ago, they used the venue to burn off Neons.
"Congratulations, Captain."
He was toasted. They were toasted.
A toast to the Federation, to humanity, to our struggle.
SpoilerThey were surrounded on all sides by long warped stalks of sugar cane.
Down the dirt road, they could see the fires licking the sky from the old batey as they were called. The sky quaked with unnerving dissonances as a Neon craft pierced the clouds above them.
Although it was only 0600, the heat was beginning to take its toll.
Their boots trampled the old wilted husks. When the stalks shift, a barrage of .308 follows.
They could see the batey from the knoll to the south. Its shanty walls were perforated perfectly by the usual suspects. They could even smell the burning metal.
"You see this shit, Romero?"
"Yeah, sarge."
"When I'm out here, lookin' at all this bullshit, in this hot, hot Santo Domingo weather..."
"...Yeah?"
"...I'm thinking about how much easier things woulda' been if you Sanctuary fuckers woulda' just capitulated six months ago. We could be landing in Veracruz right now, instead of taking out trash in Hispaniola."
"I've lived it down. So has everyone else."
"No, not everyone else, you fucking spick. I don't care what rank you've got now, but I know you weren't no fuckin' clueless private back then. You've got blood on your hands, whether you admit it or not."
Smoke rose from the fields to the north. Neither had realized that their whole group had come to a stop to watch their exchange.
"This heat is getting to you, sergeant. I served the Federation, just like y-"
Bam.
In an instant, he was set on his back. His body collided with the earth and kicked up a plume of choking dust.
As he caught his breath and rubbed his face, he could hear the Neon ships coming back for more.
SpoilerAll he heard was the pounding of blood, coursing around his head.
Sweat dripped off his face.
"Put your hands up."
It didn't register. He was desperately trying to stem the bleeding.
Tunnel vision, as it was.
"It's over, top."
The collision of a barrel against his back prompted his bloody hands upwards.
It was too late by then.
That horrifying look of terror on her face.
A gap in time, and a blur of events that could only be described as 'processing.'
Whoever was left, they all knew it was a matter of time now.
They kept them there, in camps on the surface.
On those long nights in the ruins, the stars shone brightly.
He looked up at the same constellation Carson had pointed up to.
"That, troopers, is what's at stake."
Looking back, he was foolish to think that O'Brian had something up her sleeve.
How different was she from Hudson?
He could not explain their defeat in any kind of context.
The walls had fallen out, and so had the house along with it.
Everything had lost meaning.
The paradigm had shifted, and he was caught in the middle.
They would've hanged her if she lived, he thought.
To feel ill in one's skin.
To doubt everything, and to feel a shame like none other.
All they could do was watch.
-
Fires raging in the brush outside of Dundreary, on Pallas. Fragments of a small Guilder Wave relay station peppered the planet, resulting in a mounting casualty rate.
Investigations are underway regarding the planetary defense system, the nature of the impact, and the effectiveness of Pallas' planetary defense system.
GUILDER RELAY STATION FALLS OUT OF ORBIT; BLOWN APART BY PALLAS' PLANETARY DEFENSE SYSTEM
WITH FATALITIES MOUNTING, SICON SCRAMBLES TO DETERMINE CAUSE
DUNDREARY, PALLAS ‒ With a blast heard literally around the world, the planetary defense cannons of Pallas were forced to destroy a small Guilder Relay Station after it fell out of orbit and began hurdling towards Pallas' equator on the 4th of May, 2299. Early in the afternoon, unknown assailants stormed the premises of X Station, and managed to dislodge it from its orbit using what can only be assumed was another vessel with significant thrusting capacity. Home to over 123 million people, Pallas is defended by an array of planetary defense cannons for incoming astronomical projectiles. Just as they have done before, the defense system engaged Guilder Relay Station P1XB499 as it hurdled towards Pallas. The blast was immense, and resulted in the fragmenting of the station into hundreds, if not thousands, of smaller pieces. Despite managing to knock out most of the incoming debris, meteors proceeded to pelt the surface of Pallas. Impacts were noted from as far as Dundreary to Westonhaus in the West, with debris landing in oceans, hills, yards, and the many shipyards that cover the surface of Pallas.
Fires rage, and sirens blare on the surface as firefighters and emergency services try to help the affected and displaced. Hospitals are flooded with injured, and fire brigades roll out en masse to try and contain the damage. SICON is on the scene; working with investigative teams and police networks to try and determine which party is responsible for the deaths of thousands. In the context of the Third Bug War, many are now suggesting that due to the catastrophic nature of the attack, it was carried out by human beings who had been compromised by Arachnids. SICON has dismissed these claims, stating that postulation and conjecture without evidence is fruitless, and to wait for the facts to reveal themselves through thorough, empirical, investigation.
Do you want to help with the relief effort on Pallas?
We need PEOPLE LIKE YOU skilled in the following fields:
- Medicine
- Firefighting
- Fire Prevention
- Computer Science
- Urban Planning
- Disaster Relief
- Construction
- Infrastructure Development
- Engineering
- Biology
- Social Services
Contact your LOCAL RECRUITER and ask ABOUT PALLAS
TODAY
-
An angle of the eastern section of the memorial. The pictured area was converted from the ruins of the Golf Club du Domaine Impérial.
PRANGINS, SWITZERLAND ‒ Today, SM. Ortiz christened the opening of a memorial graveyard for casualties of the Civil War. Attended by several hundred thousand veterans and their families, the memorial is the result of an ambitious undertaking on behalf of Fleet and Mobile Infantry in casualty recovery. The remains of over ten million military personnel are now interred on a massive 2500 acre plot now accessible to the public. Sitting in the shadows of the Alps, the memorial is not far from Geneva, where life is beginning to get back to the way it was before the fall. Speaking briefly, SM. Ortiz stated that honoring veterans was a crucial aspect of rebuilding the Sol System, and commended the brave men and women of the Federation who made the ultimate sacrifice for the safety of all in one of our darkest hours.
The memorial harbors remains from all stripes of the Civil War, acknowledging the sacrifice of all individuals who aided in the reunification process.
In the wake of carnage wrought by the Arachnids, the throngs of patrons flooding into the memorial were reminded of devastating capabilities of the heartless enemies of the human race. Anxious to finally visit the remains of their loved ones, the memorial's admission goes directly to supporting the war effort and maintenance of the grounds.
FUGITIVE ALERT
SEBASTIAN BENTLY
APPEARANCE: LIKELY TO HAVE CHANGED, 22 YEARS OF AGE, BRITISH INFLECTION
LAST KNOWN WHEREABOUTS: NEW MADRID, KARRUS
SUSPECT LIKELY ACCOMPANIED BY FORMER SUBORDINATES; CONSIDERED ARMED AND DANGEROUS.
DO NOT APPROACH UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
If you have any information pertaining to the whereabouts of former Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Bently,
or any fugitive crew of the Ulysses S. Grant, please contact your local police department as soon as possible.
-
ETIQUETTE FOR OUTSIDE BUSINESS
- Never use your real name. First name's can stay, but surnames must absolutely be changed in public.
- Do not try and interact with any banking interfaces. Any interactions with your accounts are almost certainly being watched, with people waiting on stand by for you to withdraw any funds. The Federation has all that information, they are not above using it against us.
- Deny any and all involvement with the Mobile Infantry/Fleet, etc. Cover scars as best you can. If someone asks, you are a stunt driver, you are a laborer, you are anything but a trooper. You fell from a tall height as a child. You get the idea.
- Travel in small groups. Large groups attract unwanted attention.
- Do not run your mouth. Information that might not seem incriminating can be used against you in the future.
- Do not, under any circumstances, bring un-vetted non-112th on to the boat unless they have intentions to stay. We should keep everyone as far away from our ship as possible.
- Do not waste the PRECIOUS MONEY WE HAVE on frivolous bullshit.
- Do not get caught up in local affairs. Do not get caught up in local affairs. Do not get caught up in local affairs. We do not have the time, money, or energy to be getting involved if there isn't something we stand to gain from it. If you have a lead, let your superiors know.
- If you have not already, get rid of any and all identification, any personal identifying possessions, anything that could somehow make you stand out.
- Never talk to police, sheriffs, marshals, or any form of law enforcement.
- Be wary around veterans and suspected veterans. It's very likely that more seasoned veterans will be fully aware of the 112th.
- Make absolutely ZERO attempts to reach out to your family. The Federation, without a doubt, is watching our places of former residence like hawks, waiting for any of us to try and return home, or get in touch with relatives. For all intents and purposes, you are dead to them now.
- Use common sense. Do as much as possible to draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Do not do anything that would incriminate or compromise yourself, or anybody on the ship.
This note will be burned in a few weeks. Read it while you can.
- Espinoza
-
Spoiler
look like a bunch of fags tbh
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The streets of St. Anthony, a once-bustling hub of industrial development in Salk's southern hemisphere. Following the outbreaks of the 2297 strain of Hart's Fever, St. Anthony has fallen into dire straits.
ST. ANTHONY, SALK ‒ A decade ago, before the emergence of the Salk Liberation Front and the subsequent fighting, St. Anthony enjoyed a prominent spot as a production nucleus for Salk's space-faring industry. In the late eighties, the memories of the first devastating wave of Orthomyxoviridae XH3N2 back in 2273 were beginning to fade as the planet's economy declined into the nineties.
One afternoon in 2273 on Salk, Sgt. Morgan Franks, head line cook, was checked into the medical bay at Camp Hiawatha with flu-like symptoms. Three hours passed, and thirteen troopers were admitted to the medical bay with similar symptoms. Within five days, 139 troopers were admitted, with 63 of them succumbing to the flu. XH3N2, or Hart's Fever, is spread like most influenza viruses; persons up to six feet away from an infected individual can still breathe in particles from the infected's saliva, excreted through talking, sneezing, and coughing. It is believed that the virus was originally carried towards civilization on Salk by a rodent-like species known as Xenomarmota flaviventrus by clinging to their wet feet as they walked towards the still-expanding frontier of human colonists. The virus was carried to cattle and poultry, where it was then carried to humans. The virus appears to only affect humans, and poultry. The outbreak in 2273 took the lives of 11,000 out of the approximately 35,000 infected.
Thanks to the efforts of one Dr. Ionnes Stephanopoulos, a vaccine was synthesized and distributed in the dry season of 2274. But, more than twenty years later, a new strain of Orthomyxoviridae XH3N2 has emerged; now more robust and quicker to mutate. Indeed, for nearly three years a vaccine to combat the new strain has eluded development due to the sheer frequency of the virus' mutation.
Dr. Kelly Lummis, retrieving isolates of the 2273 strain of Hart's Fever in Abboud, Salk.
A planet already grappling with the throes of a refugee crisis amidst the painful process of rebuilding, throwing a health crisis on top of a teetering tower of issues certainly doesn't improve the lives of the average native of Salk. Marek Kaminski, Federal Councillor for Salk, has drained the planetary treasury by trying to make ends meet for millions amidst the strife. A polarizing figure in Salk's recent history, Kaminski came into power shortly after the fall of the SLF and oversaw the resettlement of millions of refugees from Centennia in the days following Operation Breadbasket, and Salk's entrance into the then-Coalition during the Civil War. Critics argue that Kaminski's practices have been ineffective at preventing further disparity, while others look to him as a symbol of Salk following the shameful legacy of the Salk Liberation Front's destructive tour only a few years prior.
Police hold back rioters and demonstrators in Abboud.
As the 2297 strain spread, more and more cities have been quarantined in an effort to control the spread of Hart's Fever. Families have been separated, and medical facilities have been overwhelmed with the sheer number of infected trying to receive care. With no cure, hospitals can only provide palliative care before the inevitable. As more cases pop up around Salk, Councillor Kaminski has delcared a state of emergency; civilian travel in and out of Salk has been frozen until a vaccine has been developed. This decision comes after months of struggle between discontented Salkians and police, desperately trying to keep a lid on violent riots that rip through the streets. With many feeling left with no other choice, many are calling for more expansive care measures for infected personnel, but according to Salk's representatives, their hands are tied. For many on Salk, the recent outbreak of Hart's Fever serves as yet another setback for the planet in the wake of destruction from 2297 to 2298. People who have lost their homes and possessions in the tides of war stand to lose even more as Salk desperately tries to control the situation...
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TODAY
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5 hours ago, Gromborg said:
i would like to know more
Spoilergive me an obese minute
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The pulverized remains of the industrial super-centers surrounding the mouth of the Yangtze River. In nearby Zhenjiang, reconstruction efforts have been spearheaded from the ruins of Nanjing and Shanghai.
NANTONG, CHINA ‒ Today, crowds gather to view the unveiling of the recently restored Cao Gong Zhu Memorial Temple, originally built to commemorate a local hero who defended the city from Japanese pirates in 1557. Although humanity begins to approach a year of having reclaimed the Terran surface, the cultural scars continue to run deep. In addition to the massive urban complexes housing millions upon millions, the cultural footprint of the human race was often an unfortunate victim of extraterrestrial devastation. With few historical relics left intact, the energy in Nantong has become electrified. Indeed, this enthusiasm seems to be shared even by colonials who have come to earth to lend a hand. "The last three generations of my family were raised on Karrus," said Evan Zhou, a construction contractor working nearly non-stop on the greater Shanghai area, "...but I was always drawn here by the stories of earth handed down from my elders. I never had the opportunity to go until recently. I can't stand by and watch such an important place fall to ruin."
Mr. Zhou is one of the millions of colonials who have flocked to the Sol System as more and more swaths of land are deemed safe for civilian occupation. With neon strongholds from Titan to Venus dwindling in the face of one of the most extensive military undertakings in recent history, many displaced Terrans are beginning to eturn to their homes for the first time in nearly three years. While many diaspora are drawn back to earth, some have decided against returning; the scars of the invasion have run so deep that many beloved locales are now unrecognizable. Undoing the damage of the invasion is projected to take decades, and for some living among the ruins seems to impart a sense of dread for the species. In France, where some of the first territories were cleared of Neons, rehabilitation has been underway for some time. We spoke to some of the laborers on the job about Terra's place in galaxy in the days to come, and the tarnished state of humanity's cradle.
Settlements brim with Terrans and colonials alike in Épône, 40 km west of Paris.
"All we have now is footage, you see? Recordings. Snapshots and snippets of what once was. Thousands of years of human history and achievement, and so much of it decimated. My children will never be able to see what so many labored for. They will never be able to walk down the Champs-Élysées, they will never be able to experience the products of the greatest minds of this country first-hand." Jean-Paul Blaise takes a break from hefting rubble to smoke a cigarette. In the distance, the Seine River meanders through the bustling ruins, teeming with laborers. "But, it is better than nothing, no?" Blaise watches a civilian freighter rife with contractors land across the river, and start to disembark to begin demolition of un-salvageable city blocks.
"The bureaucrats will argue about what is to become of all these old cities, who is to settle where, and so on. All the displacement has made many eager to reclaim old lands, and try to stir up old bad blood from centuries ago. Can you believe the gall? It's pathetic. Whatever happens to Terra, it will always be remembered‒ even if it is a shadow of its former self."
A projected map of remaining Neon presences on Terra. Blue denotes areas that have been deemed safe for civilian habitation, but this does not mean that the occasional neon doesn't make an appearance. Cities marked are those that have been bolstered by Federal subsidies to encourage migration, as many population centers were entirely decimated.On the Larsen Ice Shelf clinging to the Antarctic Peninsula, Mobile Infantry swaddled in winter gear patrol the never-ending white horizon. In the distance, foundations are being laid on terra firma to accomodate Terran diaspora following the turn of the century. "Here's one!" Sgt. Murray Harriman drops down and grunts. With some help from his subordinates, they heft up the rigid body of a frozen Neon. Its disgusting skin slowly pulsates as it tries to thaw. Not long after, it is set back down, and shot apart by a barrage of Morita fire after a few photographs.
Troopers of the 83rd Moritas mopping up what's left of the neons in the far flung reaches of Antarctica.
"I don't mind it so much. Here, we usually find 'em in ravines and crevices, sometimes frozen together."
Sgt. Harriman points down a warped crack in the ice to an amalgamation of tumors pinned between the two walls of ice. He motions for some explosives.
"Kerouac over there got transferred here from coastal duty in Namibia. Bet you miss it now, huh Kerouac?"
The troopers mill about, scanning the horizon for any 'roamers' as they are called.
"...As far as I'm concerned, we've still got a job to do, whatever brass ends up doing with Terra. I'll stay here for however long it takes to make sure people can come back safe."
Are you interested in helping restore the Federation?
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TODAY
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What remained of the Federal Fleet Headquarters shortly after the final days of the Civil War.
MADURA POINT, SANCTUARY ‒ The Federal Fleet Headquarters were the nexus of the Federation's naval capacity, and served as the military and intelligence hub of the system-spanning arms of the Federation. Hanging suspended in orbit over the terrestrial jewel of Sanctuary, the duo were regarded as vital keys for the survival of the human race. Up until the Civil War, Sanctuary's precise location was a matter of such secrecy that not even the Sky Marshal was allowed to know. Following the invasion of earth, Sanctuary finally served its purpose; millions upon millions of traumatized Terrans were funneled onto the planet's surface in the wake of total devastation. A 'fallback' in the event that the cradle of humanity was ever compromised by extraterrestrial threat, Sanctuary would be just that; an ace up the human race's sleeve were earth to ever fall to alien hands.
However, history would have different plans. In the hands of Admiral O'Brian, Sanctuary and the FFHQ would be fortified to incredible lengths leading up to the climax of the Civil War. Using their seizure of humanity's military center and contingency plan to legitimize their claim as the 'true' Federation, O'Brian's militant faction became eponymous with the planet itself.
After the system-hopping campaign through Sanctuary space, a final confrontation was destined to occur between the final defenders of Sanctuary proper and the combined Fleet and Mobile Infantry presence of the Mobile Infantry. But it wasn't until the Progenitor Ark arrived midway through the battle that the FFHQ was sent falling out of its orbit. Falling with leagues of decimated Sanctuary and Coalition spacecraft alike, the wreck slammed into the Siemel Mountains near Madura Point. The impact was reportedly heard up to 3,000 km away. Following the blast was a massive plume of dust and debris that darkened the sky for nearly two hours after the initial hit. Not shortly after the FFHQ fell was O'Brian and her seditious cadre captured and sent to face justice in Iskander.
After its brush with the Ark, vital areas of FFHQ were blown asunder. Reclamation for Fleet has been arduous and time consuming.
With the anniversary of the battle nearing in the months ahead, the rehabilitation of the FFHQ remains a high priority for the Federation following reunification. Military personnel and crew work day and night to comb through the ravines and crags of the Siemel Mountains for vital pieces of the former nucelus of the Federation's muscle. Fleet researchers estimate that a full restoration of the station to pre-war conditions runs upwards of 70 trillion pounds. Nevertheless, significant progress has been made in reviving the once-proud station to its former glory. To O'Brian's credit, analysts postulate that without the extensive bolstering of the FFHQ's defenses, any attempt at complete or partial restoration would be completely off the table. According to Sky Marshal Ortiz, the restored station will be launched by the end of the 23rd century.
Are you interested in helping restore the Federation?
Are you skilled in the following:
- Electronics
- Engineering
- Medicine
- Computer Science
- Construction
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Contact your LOCAL ENLISTMENT CENTER and ASK ABOUT HELPING THE FEDERATION
TODAY
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[The following is scrawled out on a piece of paper attached to the bulletin board. The penmanship is poor. ]
THE PATENT PENDING EDWARD VANG HUMAN POPULATION RECOVERY PROGRAM
ladies and gentlemen the facts are staring us in the face -- the bugs' primary advantage is their numbers, plain and simple. a battalion can be deployed for weeks and kill THOUSANDS of bugs and their actions are negligible to the greater ARACHNID POPULATION
if the human race is meant to last, we must come up with a more effective means of creating human beings to fight the BUG MENACE
- get rid of the family unit
i am 100% serious. mommy and daddy system sires only a few children in the grand scheme of things. we need to expand beyond monogamous relations. we take a page out of brigham young's book, and we up the spouses.
- male citizens assigned a harem of AT LEAST 10 fertile females in order to keep
- institute 'brood system' - 'families' will be replaced with BROODS - entities of 100~200 writhing spawn from a single male patriarch. runts of the litter will be consumed. FATHER becomes BROOD KING. if a pregnancy typically lasts 9 months, and we allow brood kings unfettered access to his harem we will be able to achieve these numbers and then some in a relatively short period of time
- conscript children
now look, this sounds bad but if little timmy can load and shoot a Morita then we need to start being practical. this is the path to success! it may not sound pretty, but we need to secure an existence for the human race!
if you'd like to debate or take up any questions, please raise them with private first class ed vang
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ed vang
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Amazing. After receiving an adrenaline shot to the heart, Larson was somehow brought back to life, reborn into a screaming and hellish landscape that he happily lent his voice to.
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Dec 29, 2297
We've spent the whole day setting up mines off the coast. Everyone's exhausted. I'm lying on the dirt in this tent we put up with bugs buzzing around my face. There's finally enough space that's been cleared for us to set down a proper encampment.
People are still shaken up about what's happened in Sanctuary. A lot of the guys are worried about if all their folks got out or not. Captain Conrad rallied us and told us that we signed up to serve the Federation. Hudson had failed in his duties as a Sky Marshall, and his actions have put our entire species at risk of being eliminated. He's requested discharge papers from command, and is giving us a chance to leave in light of current events. My only family's on Sanctuary now. O'Brian's our best bet at keeping as many people alive as possible. On the bright side, there are worse places to be stationed.
Jan 1, 2298
Happy New Year. I passed out papers this morning. At the end of the day, we only had a handful of signatures. Most of them were fresh out of boot camp. I don't really blame them. I figured that current events hadn't changed what my duties and responsibilities were as a trooper. Apparently others felt the same way. Captain Conrad keeps trying to get us off of Samson to go to where the action was on Earth. It's all people seem to be talking about. There's nothing we can do about it, for now. MOBCOMM has tasked us with maintaining an outpost on these tiny islands to keep water tigers from getting to the mainland. Don't we have more important things to be doing? We're needed in the Sol System, not here.
Jan 15, 2298
Every now and then, the buzzing of insects and lapping of waves is interrupted by a dumb bug swimming into one of the mines off the coast. Whenever that happens, everyone cheers. We have begun to call this place home. The heat is miserable, and the ocean is as warm as bathwater. Most articles of clothing were shed after the first few days. We started sleeping in shifts after the first night raid, a little over a week ago. Captain says command is stiff-arming him about reassignment. There is absolutely fuck-all to do here besides swim. When the sun sets, Josephides sometimes picks up his bass, and we all sing dumb songs together.
Feb 2, 2298
The boredom has set in. Between zipping around coordinating with Fleet to blow holes on the ocean floor with our skimmers and standing guard staring at waves, the lack of activities has become mind-numbing. On the upside, I've been getting quite good at swimming. I can swim between all three of the islands three times in a row now. All we hear about the war outside is through our radio. People are becoming more and more frustrated. Conrad's hands are tied on the matter, he says.
Feb 29, 2298
We lost Lewis today. There had been a fight, and his cap had been thrown out into the surf. He swam out to get it and got caught in a riptide. He was swept out to sea, then disappeared under the water. He washed up all sliced apart. The bugs have been getting a feel for our methods. We buried him, and Captain Conrad said a few words. It's been some time since he broke the news that command has denied his requests, and a malaise has set in over the troops. We encountered Unionists (maybe? hard to tell) who rode out on a little skimmer, like ours. They refused to answer any of our calls, and fired on us. Nobody got hurt. Couldn't tell if we had gotten any of them. No bodies have washed up since. Now they know where we are. Dumbfounded that these jack-offs are trying to shoot at us when there's Arachnid about. Sometimes we can see dogfights over the water.
Mar 4, 2298
We got buzzed by a TAC today. It's shaken everybody up. Our command tent is shredded; two of our prefabs have been ripped open. Andersen had a splinter of a tree blown through his arm. Janus has parts of a door hinge embedded in his side. Between the Bugs and the Unionists, I'm beginning to get really fucking sick of this place. Every time we try to make a move on the Unionists, we get fucked over by Arachnids. Every time we try to get one over on the Bugs, they can see our tracers and hear our blasts as we try to mop them up. We've tried to get our hands on different munitions to compensate, but command has decided that life is too easy for us, and wants us to suffer. Fucking useless.
Apr 12, 2298
Supply lines are becoming more spread as more Unionists move onto Samson. We couldn't always rely on the Sekigahara to be there for us. The Bugs, of course, have noticed this. Janus is dead, and Wong has had his right leg cut off below his kneecap. He's managed to get transferred to a hospital ship.
May 9, 2298
I miss my family more than anything. I feel confined on this miserable island. I find myself dreaming of being back home more often. We got hit by another TAC barrage, this time by a group calling themselves the Coalition, and the camp has been practically ruined. I got up, and looked around, saw Sedgewick with a look on his face. Started hollering and crying; throwing punches at anyone who came near him. Took a few people to get him to calm down. Captain Conrad is becoming more highly strung. He's snapped at me a few times, and I sometimes catch myself acting coarsely with the NCO's and enlisted. The whole situation seems to be getting to people.
June 17, 2298
I've found myself glued to the radio with the rest of the men. The Unionists have merged with the Coalition, and I have a feeling that it's only going to get worse. The raids have become more frequent, from both Arachnids and these rebels. Conrad is becoming irate with command. We all are, at this point. MOBCOMM has insisted that we stay here, so we will. We'll continue to sit here with our thumbs up our asses, listening to things fall to shit from a voice in a box. Fuck this god damned island.
July 24, 2298
We buried Montez and Cars- [The page becomes illegible as it had succumbed to water damage.]
August 22, 2298
They are lying to us about what's happening out there. These bastards never cease to amaze. This fighting has done nothing but lead to more and more troopers dying. They're lying through their god damned teeth. FedNet, command, they're full of shit. Command is threatening Captain Conrad with a CM if he tries to pursue reassignment further. I should've left when I had the chance. Brass would rather see us die on some good-for-nothing islands than send us where we're needed. Why? How many more need to die? How much longer will I have to tell them, "No, we're staying here for another month," and see the frustration and hatred in their eyes? This whole thing is pointless. God damned pointless.
Sept 3, 2298
Captain Conrad is dead. Arachnids attacked in the night, and as the Bugs were storming the beach, we were hit by a TAC barrage. The island was coated with napalm, and everyone in a tent was burned alive. There was fire and smoke everywhere. I tried to get as many people to the beach as possible, fighting off bugs with what little ammunition we had left. We'd been separated and scattered by the fire and bugs. I was knocked out when the ammunition cache exploded. It is about four in the morning now. Our numbers have been more than halved. Captain Conrad was trying to radio for help when he was wrapped in the burning tent he was inside of. The fires have died down now. Command has finally decided to retrieve and reassign us. I want to forget this horrible place. I hate this war, and I hate what it's made of us. I hate this life that we are forced to lead where good men die for nothing. To whoever finds this, know that all I wanted to do was fulfill the terms of my oath, and serve the human race. Conrad's Corsairs were good men, who stuck it through to the end. Whoever wins this stupid war, I hope that it's not too late for them to remember who it is being fought for.- Lt. Yanick Blanchard, 202nd Moritas, Alpha Company *
*Alpha Company dissolved shortly after September, and Lieutenant Blanchard was formally promoted to captain on September 10th, 2298. The records from Sanctuary are spotty, but we can confirm his death on Epsilon Prime during the last days of the Civil War. Captain Blanchard was leading some of the last troops outside of Achilles when he was shot, presumably by the 92nd Moritas who were operating in their AO. According to the record, had he survived for a few more hours, he may have been able to flee to Sanctuary when O'Brian issued the general retreat on Epsilon Prime. We've cross-referenced the dates listed by Blanchard with some of the drives that Spc. Merchant recovered from Fleet HQ down on Sanctuary, and they line up with Coalition operations in the late summer in the Samson theater. Planning to dispatch a crew to exhume corpses to corroborate old Sanctuary records on the island. Not many first names mentioned, makes a bitch to track down. Copies made. Useless now. Return physical to SSgt. Holtz. Might as well.
- Espinoza
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ed vag
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[LOADING ENTRY]
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[FILE CORRUPTED]
[RECOVERY IN PROGRESS]
Ọ̻͔̥͇̪̤͡f̶̕͏͙̥͓̣̭̼̳͖ ͎͔͓̥̣̮̀̕c̢̮͍̲̲̗ͅo̷̧͔̝̤͉u͏͕̥̠͓͇ŗ̸͎̯s̷̨̪͈̘̝̰̳ͅe͓͓͍͖̮͚͢͝ͅͅ,̡̖̞͔͍̘̤́ ̝̱̪͖̳͜͟n̢̳͚͖͎o̵̕ͅb̴͈̲̠͎͇̠̥o̪̦͜͠dy has been returning our calls to Abboud. Dr. Watson's at his wits end, trying to provide what little palliative care that we can. It seems like every day there's more patients, despite the lockdowns. According to one of our nurses, they're closing hospitals further south where the resurgence is worse. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite as bad as the situation on Salk. I was doing my residency when the first outbreak happened back in '73. How long ago that was. This strain is much, much harder to pin down. Ivan laments to me that the second they manage to isolate it and synthesize a vaccine, it's already mutated.
Outside, everything smells like ash and cinders. They're burning down the condemned blocks. They, being the few-remaining police detachments that are garbed up in protective suits, just like us. As the days drag on, we're seeing fewer and fewer of them.
Every now and again, I accompany the interns to the station to retrieve supplies. The conditions have deteriorated at such a tremendous rate that I wouldn't have believed that such poverty and destitution existed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. When we go, we pass unresponsive bodies on the street; some of them are patients that we were forced to turn loose. Sometimes, I even recognize their faces. They lay on the pavement, gasping for air as their lungs fill with fluid. They struggle to hold down food, and they slowly drift from place to place until they stop moving altogether. They mix with the vagrants, many of whom have been kicked out of their homes in an attempt to control the spread of the disease. This, in turn, makes it even easier for the virus to spread among the encampments that have sprung up. I've had patients die on me before, I'm no stranger to it- but it pains me to watch these people slowly suffer and being able to do nothing about it besides ease their pain. Sick mothers becoming estranged from their infant children, knowing that they won't be around to watch them grow into adulthood. It's soul-crushing.
The streets have become dangerous. Roaming gangs smash storefronts and loot the few businesses that haven't been closed down. Money has stopped flowing into the city. People know they are living on borrowed time, and are acting accordingly. I've been threatened on numerous occasions. The scars from the fighting last year are still present; many buildings have been left in different degrees of ruin. The Kaminski administration is tearing at the seams, and it shows in this place in particular. The government has issued a litany of restrictions on travel, and have prioritized screening and detection over palliative care. As a result, many places have been quartered off, and the people inside have been left to hang in the wind. Ivan fought on Salk, and I can tell he's got a lot of opinions about Kaminski and his cronies. Either way, our frustration is palpable. We've had to discipline some of our nurses for snapping at patients.
I can hear a pack of dogs outside, fighting over a corpse, probably. Tomorrow, we're meant to pick up our month's cut. Sometimes, we've received packages of supplies that have clearly been tampered with, with several articles missing. It's disheartening to see such behavior. Sometimes, I think of Sally and Fatimah, and that gets me through the long shifts. It's hard to keep in touch with your humanity when each day you're the one who has to break the news to a patient that they're not long for this world. I fear that the government will soon relocate us, and stop all operations here. It's been an uphill battle. Wherever we get moved to, we'll inevitably get moved somewhere else, and blockade everything. Burn down the condemned blocks, and start all over again someplace else. Sometimes, it reminds me of my time developing trauma equipment for the Mobile Infantry. There's only so many ways you can protect and mend a person who has been sliceḓ̷̛̻̖̼̝͝ ̷̪̝͚̺͓͎̰͙͟ͅų̸̡̹͎̮̗ͅp̶̡̖͍̼̗̯̱ ̶̥̹̣̯ͅḅ͈̖̦̕͘y̢̞̮̹̘̩̩ͅ ̭̼̤̲ą̩̲̩͉̲͕͝n̫͓͇ ̹͘͠͡Á̷̧͓̬̩̩r͈͚͉͇͈͝a̶̢̞̱̻̻c̝͙̳͙h̖̻͢͡n͞҉̴̤̻̯ͅi͙̪͘͘͡d̞̝̯̣͉̻͘͟.̱̣̩̞̭̭̗̮͝ͅ
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[RECOVERY FAILED]
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On 3/15/2019 at 1:30 PM, hewhogrillsbears said:
Banned from Virgil's Point Opera House indefinitely.
I would like to know more
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SSgt. Avery Dawes PK Appeal
in Complaints & Appeals
Posted
Acknowledged and agreed: Appeal sustained and the PK reversed.