Post by zearoth on Sept 18, 2006 6:16:08 GMT -5
Before anything else, credit where credit is due. Thanks to the mighty Uwasawaya (I did not look, and I demand an immediate update of Survival if I got it right) and for our beloved Alex for inspiring me into writing this, the first for showing that it is not silly to write a fanfic for a mod and the later for providing the marvel of Killing Floor, which almost caused me to fail my exams for being so goddamned fun.
Without further ado, here's the prelude.
------------------------
It is an arcane language of symbols both modern and old, shaped by the hand of man in order to explore the greater mysteries of the universe, at times exotic for the initiated and often incomprehensible for the casual observer. In the name of this science I have been placed here to uncover the great enigma of our age, a blasphemous horror that has claimed millions, to decode the language that has allowed the unspeakable to pass, to understand Hell.
Bunch of rubbish, to be frank, a poetic way of saying that the DRF has made me the head honcho for the Avalon Research Facility, and they expect me to lead a ragtag band of overworked and half-insane scientists to concoct a scientific solution for the outbreak, at least that is what the big letters say our mission statement is. Read the small font, however, and it would be known that we are trying to find profit from this calamity.
I've said time and time again to my commander (Jerry "Dickhead" Sallus) that recovering a few of our planes and carpet-bombing the entirety of the UK and the majority Western Europe would work just fine, but see if he will listen to good sense, the idiot. DRF is full of them, crying babies who have lost a lover there, a kid on the other side or a parrot in the zoo. Idiots who want to do damage control and protect survivor enclaves, whose sentimentalism and urge to rescue everyone is spelling doom for our campaign.
That's not me, though. The specimens, or "zombies" as some uncultured troopers insist, ate my neighbours and my dog, but you don't see me wanting to give an overdose of lead to everything that groans, moans and wants to tear my head off. The only remainder of my close family is my rebellious teenage daughter who is on an extended holiday with her cousin in the other side of the world, and my ex-wife, who's probably still alive in London for no reason other than God hating me. She'll probably outlive us all.
Not that I have much time to wonder about whether the bitch has become a McPeople, the military keeps me busy enough as it is. They call me Dr. Moreau when I am not around, and bring specimens for me to dissect and analyse. I check every layer of their flesh and every organ for answers as to what keeps these abominations moving. I have injected almost every item of the periodic table I can get my hands on in the veins of the few still "living" creatures they bring to me, carefully noting reactions.
They do not work like we do, that much I know. The muscles that move them onward are more efficient, their blood is more viscous, their nervous system bizarre to behold and they can live off a diet of nothing but cockroaches and old pizza for weeks. A perfect organism moved by a burning white light in the back of its head, telling it to annihilate all that is different.
My most official command is to develop a weapon, a counter-virus or vaccine so to say, some miracle cure that can be released to slaughter the entirety of them in a few hours. Commander Sallus is not stupid enough to believe this is possible, that's when my real job begins.
We want to imitate them. We want to create something like them that can be controlled and mastered, a self-replicating weapon that no army can resist (as the fall of Britain and Eastern US can attest), we want to create our very own Adam Kadmon that will extinguish the outbreak and serve us until the end of times.
The road to Hell is paved by good intentions. It is fortunate I don't have any.
----------------------------------------
Next: The Protagonist expounds the virtues of proper dietary habits
Without further ado, here's the prelude.
------------------------
It is an arcane language of symbols both modern and old, shaped by the hand of man in order to explore the greater mysteries of the universe, at times exotic for the initiated and often incomprehensible for the casual observer. In the name of this science I have been placed here to uncover the great enigma of our age, a blasphemous horror that has claimed millions, to decode the language that has allowed the unspeakable to pass, to understand Hell.
Bunch of rubbish, to be frank, a poetic way of saying that the DRF has made me the head honcho for the Avalon Research Facility, and they expect me to lead a ragtag band of overworked and half-insane scientists to concoct a scientific solution for the outbreak, at least that is what the big letters say our mission statement is. Read the small font, however, and it would be known that we are trying to find profit from this calamity.
I've said time and time again to my commander (Jerry "Dickhead" Sallus) that recovering a few of our planes and carpet-bombing the entirety of the UK and the majority Western Europe would work just fine, but see if he will listen to good sense, the idiot. DRF is full of them, crying babies who have lost a lover there, a kid on the other side or a parrot in the zoo. Idiots who want to do damage control and protect survivor enclaves, whose sentimentalism and urge to rescue everyone is spelling doom for our campaign.
That's not me, though. The specimens, or "zombies" as some uncultured troopers insist, ate my neighbours and my dog, but you don't see me wanting to give an overdose of lead to everything that groans, moans and wants to tear my head off. The only remainder of my close family is my rebellious teenage daughter who is on an extended holiday with her cousin in the other side of the world, and my ex-wife, who's probably still alive in London for no reason other than God hating me. She'll probably outlive us all.
Not that I have much time to wonder about whether the bitch has become a McPeople, the military keeps me busy enough as it is. They call me Dr. Moreau when I am not around, and bring specimens for me to dissect and analyse. I check every layer of their flesh and every organ for answers as to what keeps these abominations moving. I have injected almost every item of the periodic table I can get my hands on in the veins of the few still "living" creatures they bring to me, carefully noting reactions.
They do not work like we do, that much I know. The muscles that move them onward are more efficient, their blood is more viscous, their nervous system bizarre to behold and they can live off a diet of nothing but cockroaches and old pizza for weeks. A perfect organism moved by a burning white light in the back of its head, telling it to annihilate all that is different.
My most official command is to develop a weapon, a counter-virus or vaccine so to say, some miracle cure that can be released to slaughter the entirety of them in a few hours. Commander Sallus is not stupid enough to believe this is possible, that's when my real job begins.
We want to imitate them. We want to create something like them that can be controlled and mastered, a self-replicating weapon that no army can resist (as the fall of Britain and Eastern US can attest), we want to create our very own Adam Kadmon that will extinguish the outbreak and serve us until the end of times.
The road to Hell is paved by good intentions. It is fortunate I don't have any.
----------------------------------------
Next: The Protagonist expounds the virtues of proper dietary habits
