The Eastern Bloc
31-10-2004, 23:15
Gestalt could not believe where he was. His wide eyes continued to trace around the dull, terribly rough iron plating of the transport that carried him from his ransacked house to his new home. A hundred other prisoners looked to be in the same state. Confusion and fear permeated the cargo hold. Gestalt’s arms burned with pain as they hung outstretched over his head, clasped tightly by irons. Likewise, his feet were locked into a holding device; they’d remained motionless for nearly three days. No food, no water. This was a Eurydian Penal Transport.
The transport lurched suddenly, sending all passengers swinging about like a pendulum. Eyes darted back and forth, conveying a lack of understanding. Perhaps they’d arrived? Had it been three days already? Perhaps a raider vessel had stopped them to look for slaves? Who knew in the senseless pit. A voice cried out over the intercom, gruff and indifferent. “Welcome to Sparda, boys. They’ve made all the preparations for your arrival. As they say, ‘Hell’s Bucket waits for no man.’” The voice cackled fiercely, then fizzled out as the intercom went silent. Almost instantly the cargo hold’s main doors jerked open. Lifting slowly, all the prisoners could see at first were the feet of their masters. Then legs, clad in black jumpsuit like pants. The door stopped with a loud bang, startling most of the prisoners. The disjointed legs and feet were now men holding assault rifles. A black helmet with two red circles for eyes was all Gestalt could look at. Even the rifles lost to that piercing red. They took a step forward, in unison, and aimed their weapons.
One of the guards (sporting a small “Warden” insignia on his body armor) stepped forward and waved his hand. The magnetic locks holding the prisoners arms and feet instantly disengaged. Gestalt fell to the ground, rubbing his hands together, feeling more free than he had in his whole life. The warden chuckled, his voice sounding distant and cut off. “Welcome to Sparda Penal Colony. You prisoners are now Eurydian property. You belong to me, and you belong to the Emperor. Do your work and serve your time and you may yet live through Hell’s Bucket. Run, and you will be executed. Neglect your work, and you will be executed. Oppose a guard, and you will be executed. Work, and you will live. It’s as simple as that. You will be clothed and given a cell. Then, to the mines.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
Gestalt stood (the hardest thing he’d done in a long time), only to be struck down with the butt of a rifle. A guard stood over him, voice and actions totally emotionless. “You will stand when told too.” Gestalt nodded, and the guard continued on, striking all prisoners who attempted to move. He looked past the cargo hold and into the docking bay the ship rested in. To his amazement, roughly ten other transports were unloading prisoners into a large detention center. He supposed that they’d be stamped there, and then sent to the various blocks. He could see a thousand men, all naked, standing in a confined area. What perversion was this? Gestalt could find no order to this madness. Crime to trial, trial to conviction, conviction to the god forsaken transport, and finally to Sparda. In such a short time his whole life had been turned upside down. Three days on a transport and he was now completely cut off from everything he knew. This was wrong. This was madness. This was Hell’s Bucket.
The transport lurched suddenly, sending all passengers swinging about like a pendulum. Eyes darted back and forth, conveying a lack of understanding. Perhaps they’d arrived? Had it been three days already? Perhaps a raider vessel had stopped them to look for slaves? Who knew in the senseless pit. A voice cried out over the intercom, gruff and indifferent. “Welcome to Sparda, boys. They’ve made all the preparations for your arrival. As they say, ‘Hell’s Bucket waits for no man.’” The voice cackled fiercely, then fizzled out as the intercom went silent. Almost instantly the cargo hold’s main doors jerked open. Lifting slowly, all the prisoners could see at first were the feet of their masters. Then legs, clad in black jumpsuit like pants. The door stopped with a loud bang, startling most of the prisoners. The disjointed legs and feet were now men holding assault rifles. A black helmet with two red circles for eyes was all Gestalt could look at. Even the rifles lost to that piercing red. They took a step forward, in unison, and aimed their weapons.
One of the guards (sporting a small “Warden” insignia on his body armor) stepped forward and waved his hand. The magnetic locks holding the prisoners arms and feet instantly disengaged. Gestalt fell to the ground, rubbing his hands together, feeling more free than he had in his whole life. The warden chuckled, his voice sounding distant and cut off. “Welcome to Sparda Penal Colony. You prisoners are now Eurydian property. You belong to me, and you belong to the Emperor. Do your work and serve your time and you may yet live through Hell’s Bucket. Run, and you will be executed. Neglect your work, and you will be executed. Oppose a guard, and you will be executed. Work, and you will live. It’s as simple as that. You will be clothed and given a cell. Then, to the mines.” He turned on his heel and walked out.
Gestalt stood (the hardest thing he’d done in a long time), only to be struck down with the butt of a rifle. A guard stood over him, voice and actions totally emotionless. “You will stand when told too.” Gestalt nodded, and the guard continued on, striking all prisoners who attempted to move. He looked past the cargo hold and into the docking bay the ship rested in. To his amazement, roughly ten other transports were unloading prisoners into a large detention center. He supposed that they’d be stamped there, and then sent to the various blocks. He could see a thousand men, all naked, standing in a confined area. What perversion was this? Gestalt could find no order to this madness. Crime to trial, trial to conviction, conviction to the god forsaken transport, and finally to Sparda. In such a short time his whole life had been turned upside down. Three days on a transport and he was now completely cut off from everything he knew. This was wrong. This was madness. This was Hell’s Bucket.