Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Round 2 - George Shipley (Adam)
Round 2 - Marcus "Fish" Jones (Justin)
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Round 2 - Evan Donaghue (Eric)
Dr. Evan Donaghue watched with glee as four laboratory mice moved through a three-dimensional maze with military discipline and cohesion. Their objective was a large food supply guarded by a group of eight mice, located at the centre of the maze.
"Eureka is clearly executing his training exactly as we practiced," Donaghue spoke into a portable recorder. "But more significantly, Donner, Blitzen and Dasher are all cooperating without any overt signs of communication. Their behaviour is every bit as practiced and confident, despite them having never seen the maze or the objective before today. This is encouraging, but the true test lies ahead."
He paused the recording as he watched the augmented mice approach the centre of the maze. All four attackers stopped simultaneously, despite being out of each other's sight. The guardian mice sniffed at the air nervously, seeming to detect that something was amiss, but unable to decide how to react. In an instant, the attacker mice pounced into the centre of the maze from their four different approaches and began mercilessly executing the guardians. Despite being outnumbered two to one, the attackers eliminated their rivals in seconds. With the guardians dead, they pounced on the food supply and began devouring it.
"Eureka, you did it! You prince among mice! You make me proud! What did Rhee call your brothers? Super soldiers! Yes, you are that and so much more."
Just then, Marcus Jones came tumbling into the medical lab, visibly wounded.
"Doc, I'm hurt," he said, oddly calm.
"Yes, I can see that. Come lie down on the table here and let me have a look."
Jones complied quietly.
"I'm going to give you a sedative to help you relax," Donaghue explained as he filled a syringe with clear fluid. "I'm afraid your arm is broken and it will be quite painful to repair it."
Jones looked impassively at the needle and said nothing. Donaghue gave him the injection and soon, he was asleep. Donaghue quickly wheeled the table into the adjoining B-142 lab.
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October 10, 10AM. B-142 Medical.
Donaghue held Eureka the mouse, lovingly scratching the fur on his head, as he watched Marcus Jones, laying on an examination table, next to the table supporting VanderTuin's body. Jones slowly regained consciousness.
{Welcome back, Marcus,} thought Donaghue silently.
{Doctor? Is that you?} came Marcus' thoughts.
{Yes, it is me, be calm.} Donaghue projected soothingly.
{What is happening? How can I hear you inside my head?}
{Thanks to my greatest achievement, finally perfected. You and I are now linked. We have become a human hive mind.}
Marcus sat up, a look of astonishment on his face. {Hive mind...} his thoughts were interrupted as his eyes fell upon something behind Donaghue.
Turning, Donaghue contemplated the small shrine he had erected in the lab. At its centre was a small, ancient statue.
{That is Guiher'inkel, an alien entity that visited our world long ago. The statue was discovered nearby, at the Markham base in 1913. It is much more than a simple statue, of course. It has become the corner stone of my hive mind research.}
Marcus climbed off the table, looking more shaken than before.
{Do you have any morphine, doc? I'm still in pain} Marcus complained.
{Ah yes, your addiction. If you stop and examine yourself inwardly for a moment, I think you will find that your pain is in fact, gone.}
Marcus concentrated for a moment before a look of awe spread across his face.
{Now, I relieve you of your psychological addiction,} projected Donaghue.
{I feel... I feel great!}
{Excellent} thought Donaghue, as he put Eureka on the ground and released him. {Now, we have work to do. It is time to grow our fledgling hive mind. First this base, and then, the world!}
Round 2 - Ryan Miller (Makou)
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Round 1 - Ken Rhee (Marc)
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Round 1 - George Shipley (Adam)
Douglas suddenly burst out laughing. The sound came through George's headphones in a piercing burst.
"Fucking hell," George yelled. "Turn off your microphone if you're going to cackle like a fucking queer." George knew that only Douglas would hear the comment. VanderTuin was likely listening to some smooth jazz bullshit, and Donaghue always turned his headphones mute.
"Ah, sorry mate," replied Douglas in a thick Scottish accent. He undid his belt and slid sideways in to the seat behind Shipley, before buckling himself back in. "We far out now?"
"Couple more minutes. Can't you tell from all the landmarks?" George motioned out of the front canopy at the empty white wasteland.
"You know what, I really can't. I should probably pay better attention."
"You said it," replied George. Douglas was one of the few people on the base that George sort of liked. He wouldn't go so far as to call the man a friend, but he could keep up with George's drinking, and he didn't do too much that actively pissed him off. Douglas went quiet, and George realized he was signing over at Maggie again. He wondered if there was something going on between them. The base was so small, it was unlikely they would be able to keep it quiet if there was, but nobody really spoke much to George anyway, so it was possible there was and he'd been too oblivious to notice.
A minute or so later, the Markham base materialized in front of them, and George Shipley lowered the old helicopter and touched down in the centre of the base, whipping up snow and pushing it in waves against the sides of the abandoned buildings. George was pleased to see that the work of the last few weeks had hardly been affected by the ongoing poor weather.
VanderTuin unbuckled his belt as the twin blades atop the 212 slowed to a halt, and pulled the door open in its frame. Cold air rushed in to the cabin and the man jumped out. Donaghue went next, climbing out a little too nimbly for a man who was, as Shipley understood it, in his mid to late seventies, followed by Maggie Holness. George's only job was to bring the team in, and fly them back out once their business at the base was complete. Until then, he was under express orders to stay inside the 212 and be prepared to take off at a moment's notice. Douglas pulled off his headphones, unbuckled his belt and punched George in the back of the shoulder.
"Ah! What the fuck are you waiting for?" George asked. "Get going. Sooner you get in there, sooner I can get the fuck back to my nice warm bed."
"Ha! I just wanted to get a good look at your face while your still alive. I think we're gonna be in there a while. You might freeze to death sitting in here on your big fat arse."
"Ah, well, that's where you're mistaken." George reached under his seat and pulled out a clear glass bottle full of a warm looking brown liquid. "I have an old friend to keep me warm." Fin's eyes widened at the sight of Shipley's home brew.
"Cunt! You kept that a secret, didn't you? You best save me a bottle for the trip back."
"Sorry Finbar. Last bottle. All mine. You can keep drinking that piss water you call beer. Shipley's Own is for real men."
"Shitpea's Own?" he replied. "Sounds delicious. See you in a bit." With that he got up, and jumped out of the helicopter, and jogged off after the others. He left the side door wide open.
"Prick," said George to himself. He unbuckled himself from his seat and clambered in to the back of the helicopter, pulling the side door shut. He stood up as straight as he could manage. His back had been crooked for years, and his right leg was mostly lame from an injury he'd sustained in a fight with an enemy combatant after crashing in hostile territory when he was in the military. He bent the leg at the knee backwards and forwards a few times to try and loosen up the tight joint. It was a persistent pain he felt, and it was worse in the cold. He frequently questioned his own judgement for taking a job flying in the Arctic where it was cold, but what other work was there for a man like him? He didn't see himself giving exciting helicopter tours in the Caribbean; he had all the charisma of a dead fish.
He looked out of the window, and watched as Douglas pulled a crowbar from his pack, and the four members of the research team went under the canvas tunnel that led to the door of the largest building, and disappeared from sight. He sat down in the passenger area of the Bell 212 and banged off the bottle cap of his beer on the edge of one of the seats, settling in for a long wait.
George looked out towards the canvas tunnel where the team had entered the largest building a few hours before. The wind was picking up. The fabric flapped heavily in the breeze, and snow gusted across the ground in thick waves of powder. Something blue poked out of the ground near the entrance to the canvas tunnel.
A glove.
George wrapped his scarf around his face and pulled his hat over his head, before pulling the side door open and dropping out gingerly into the snow that had built up around the landing skids. He limped over quickly to the canvas tunnel, cursing his stupid leg, and reached down to the glove, taking hold of the hand inside it and pulling.
He dragged VanderTuin out from inside the tunnel. He was dead, his face twisted in horror. There were no wounds that George could see.
"What?" George whispered to himself. He stepped over the man, and entered the canvas tunnel, walking cautiously down the fifteen foot corridor, and pulling the combat knife he'd taken from the man who'd crippled his leg after he'd crushed the life from him with his bare hands from its sheath at his thigh. He reached the wooden door and pushed it open slowly, peeking his head inside. The room was empty but for a table and some chairs, the walls padded with an old wool-like material that had yellowed with age. Across the room was another door, this one open.
He entered, and hobbled as quietly as he could over to the second door. He look inside, but it was too dark to see anything. He pulled his torch from his belt, and held it in the same hand as his knife. Switching it on, he saw more nothing. No supplies or food; not even furniture. The room was barren. There were no other doors in here.
"But what about Maggie?"
"We won't be seeing her again Mr. Shipley. Start the engines. We need to go, before they finish with her and come for us."
"Who?"
Donaghue reached in to his coat pocket and pulled out a pistol, pointing it at George's face.
"The engines, Mr. Shipley, now."
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Round 1 - Marcus "Fish" Jones (Justin)
Marcus “Fish” Jones couldn’t get the sound out of his head.
BANG… BANG…
It all started the day before while he doing some personal research on the Khlebnikov, a Russian sub trapped in the ice about a kilometer off base. A storm had been brewing and he should have left much sooner, but Fish’s curiosity got the better of him and he continued to explore. Despite his age, Fish felt like a kid on a jungle gym, and he climbed all over the sub. He was inspecting the periscope when he heard it.
BANG… BANG…
Two loud noises, then nothing. The thing that sent shivers down his old spine was that it sounded deliberate. Measured. As if there was something in the Khlebnikov…
He broke from his reminiscing and got up from his bed, his bones aching. He turned to his small worn pill bottle and opened the cracked top. The bottom of the bottle was still legible and read ENOL. This was his emergency stash of painkillers, horse tranquilizers to be exact. He was desperately waiting for a new supply of morphine to help him overcome the lingering effects of a devastating motorcycle crash decades earlier. He had survived, but chronic pain became his constant companion.
The tranqs worked immediately and Fish pulled himself from his bed where he had spent a sleepless night the night before. He needed to get back to that submarine. He needed to listen, to prove to himself that he hadn’t actually heard anything. He needed to nip this one in the bud.
Marcus got his gear together and pulled on his multiple layers, skin pulling tight over old scar tissue. He signed out one of the two arctic ATVs in the garage and sped out, wheels kicking up a spray of fine grained snow.
The day was crisp and clear. In the distance he saw the sub’s radio antenna emerge over the horizon, then the conning tower, smooth and black against the white of the endless snow. The storm had kicked up some loosely packed snow and blown it around, leaving more of the hull visible than he’d ever seen. He fought the creeping dread of hearing the sound as he got closer.
Fish parked the ATV next to the Khlebnikov and began walking around. He was looking for a way to get up on top of the sub when he noticed a piece of dark blue fabric sticking out of the snow in the shadow of the hull. The storm must have blown the snow drifts around revealing this new artifact.
Fish got close enough to determine that he was looking at the sleeve of a navy uniform, but recoiled in horror when he saw that the sleeve ended with a dead, white hand encircled with what looked like a medical bracelet.
Trembling, he got closer, close enough to read the name on the bracelet: Uri Popov. His breath caught in his throat when he read the date on the bracelet. It was dated one month ago.
BANG… BANG…
As quickly as his old bones allowed, Marcus Jones turned and ran. He hopped on his ATV and fumbled with the ignition until he peeled out from the shadow of the Khlebnikov. He needed to tell someone, anyone. But first, he would need to finish off his bottle of horse tranquilizers.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Round 1 - Evan Donaghue (Eric)
October 7th, 8:00 PM GMT
"How is MA-14 looking?" asked Evan Donaghue as he walked into unit B-141.
Ken Rhee looked up from the lab mouse he had been inspecting, and watched his boss walking toward the door to unit B-142. Donaghue was an elderly man, but moved like he was much younger. Looking at the doctor, Rhee would have figured him to be in his fifties, but Rhee had once found a paper that Donaghue had published almost 50 years earlier, so he guessed that Donaghue's real age had to be at least 70.
Donaghue reached the door to B-142 and pulled out his security pass. Pausing, he turned to look at Rhee, who realised that he hadn't answered his boss' question.
"Uh...", he stumbled, "what was that, doctor?"
"MA-14", Donaghue repeated. "That is the specimen that you're inspecting, isn't it? How does it look? Has the swelling around the implant gone down?"
Rhee looked down at the mouse and noticed that his hands were shaking.
"Um..." responded Ree, realising that his mind had gone blank. He hastily grabbed the mouse, and roughly turned it over, trying to find the scar left from the surgery. The mouse reacted angrily to his rough handling and bit his finger, breaking the skin. Rhee gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to react to the bite and to focus on the animal's abdomen. The scar was clearly visible in the centre of the shaved patch.
"Yes," Rhee answered at last, relieved to have something intelligent to say. "The swelling is coming down nicely. It looks like the subject is not adversely reacting to the implant."
"Excellent," said Donaghue. "Don't look so surprised," he added with a charming smile, "I've done this sort of thing before."
Rhee tensed up again. "I'm not surprised!" he said in a near panic.
Donaghue laughed casually. "Don't worry, my boy. I'm only teasing you," then adopting an air of genuine concern, he added "are you feeling alright?"
Rhee shrugged. "It's this place," he answered. "I think it's starting to get to me."
"Courage, my boy. If you think it is hard now, just wait until it is permanently night time. That's when the isolation really sinks in."
Rhee swallowed hard, suddenly imagining never seeing the sun again.
"But you'll get through it and the next thing you know, you'll be on your way home with quite a story to tell," Donaghue continued encouragingly. "I'll even be sure to mention you by name when I am collecting my next Nobel prize!" Donaghue laughed good-naturedly.
Rhee managed a smile, while feeling intellectually dwarfed by the mere presence of his boss. No slouch in his own right, Rhee had never managed to even understand the work that Donaghue had completed to earn his first Nobel prize.
Swiping his badge at the security scanner, Donaghue swung open the door to B-142 and walked in. Rhee craned his neck trying to see into the neighbouring lab. He had never been allowed in and could only guess at the nature of Donaghue's work, despite working full time as his assistant.
Donaghue strode out of sight, and as the lab door slowly swung closed behind him, Rhee caught a rare glimpse at the inside of the lab. He saw an operating table, covered by a clean blue sheet. Something fairly bulky was hidden from sight under that sheet. As Rhee watched through the narrowing crack of the doorway, he swore he saw a pale human arm slip out from under the sheet and hang limply.
The door closed with a loud click and Rhee jumped at a pain in his hand. Looking down he realised he was squeezing the poor lab mouse, who had bitten him again. He struggled to keep hold of the squirming animal while relaxing his grip, but his hands were uncooperative as they shook violently. The mouse leapt from his grasp and in another moment, it was out of sight.
Swallowing hard again, Rhee frantically began searching the lab.
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Conditional Failure - Donaghue has inadvertently made Ree suspicious, while also possibly losing a test subject.
Round 1 - Ryan Miller (Makou)
Friday, August 12, 2016
A New Disaster - Cold and Desolate
Dr. Molly Patel welcomed Miller to the base. She was present during his interview. She has a British accent. She's about thirty. George is a bit in love with her.
Steve something? is a researcher. He's fairly new at the base. He's one of Donaghue's hive. George broke his wrist.
Harmon is one of Donaghue's hive.
Finbar Douglas (presumed dead) was a research assistant to Evan Donaghue. He was left behind at the Markham base 6 months ago.
Maggie Holness (presumed dead) was another research assistant. She was deaf, and was also left behind at the Markham base after carrying Donaghue back to the Bell 212 and returning for Finbar.
Ben VanderTuin was an architect and engineer. He was killed at the Markham base, having been slashed across the back by an unknown assailant. His body was carried back to the helicopter by George Shipley before they left.
There are 7 other people currently living on the base; 5 male and 1 female. They are unnamed and their roles undefined.