Helfaer
27-07-2006, 22:54
Heavy combat boots clacked against the concrete floor of the unloading bay as each member of the squad took up their prearranged position, forming up ten metres back from the back of the Behemoth Transport Vehicle that dominated the cavernous room. As they reached their position, each man raised his rifle to his shoulder, clicked the safety catch off, took careful aim at the rear ramp, and braced to fire.
At the closed end of the unloading bay, a door opened. The man who stepped through was remarkable in his greyness. His suit and tie were grey, his eyes were grey, his hair was grey. Even his skin was tinged with grey from a lifetime in the ash desert. Under one arm he held a clipboard, and a pen protruded from his breast pocket. A pair of steel-framed spectacles perched on his pointed nose, catching the harsh light occasionally and giving them a shine that looked completely out of place on this figure. He walked towards the massive tracked vehicle with no attempt at hurry, despite the obvious tension of the soldiers. Finally, reaching the vehicle, he looked up at the raised cab.
"Lower the ramp!"
The man nearest to him saluted, then ducked away inside the cab. A second later there was a clank and then a hiss as the locks disengaged and the ramp began to drop on its hydraulics. The room fell silent except for the sound of the ramp dropping, every pair of eyes fixed on what lay behind.
The end of the ramp hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud that echoed wildly. The first light of eight hours poured into the cargo hold of the vehicle, revealing what was inside. Men, women, children, their wrists and ankles chained together, allowing only a minimum of movement. Each one barely able to stand, their ribs jutting from wasted chests, limbs spindly and seeming barely able to function. Their hair hung lank and greasy, and they remained filthy from the labour camp that they had been brought from, an iron mine in the Spine of Leviathan mountain range. Each one had not had water for a day, or food for three. They had been kept first in the loading bay at the mine, and then they had endured an agonising, dark, hellishly hot journey in the bowels of the Behemoth.
But it was their eyes that were most striking. Bloodshot from tiredness, they were the eyes of corpses, without emotion, without shine. They were eyes that had seen only suffering and death for years on end, and that saw no future for themselves besides being gradually starved, beaten, and worked to death. And even in death they would know no peace, their bodies dumped into decomposition vats or ground up by vast gears to feed to their old comrades, dumped into the gruel by overseers who claimed that the mysterious chunks of meat were chicken.
The squad leader motioned with his rifle that the slaves should come out, and was satisfied to see that they were sufficiently broken to obey without question. While anomalies were rare they could be dangerous, hence the assault rifles. The first, a man with a shredded right arm from an encounter with the business end of a rock drill, forced himself up and began to descend the ramp. Each slave had been chained to the next, and so like some pale, emaciated centipede, the slaves began their slow, agonised shuffle down the ramp to the floor below. The soldiers maintained their positions, watchful for any abnormal movement by any of the slaves. And the Grey Man stood silently by, his pen scraping against the clipboard, recording their branded identification numbers and their physical deformities that made them no longer capable of work.
As the final slave was marked off, the soldiers backed the group up against the wall. The Grey Man stepped forward, and began to speak in a quiet, deadpan voice that sounded so bereft of emotion that it could have been a machine speaking.
"Slaves, you have been brought here because even the labour camps would not have you. You had been offered the chance to redeem for your crimes through toil in the service of Helfaer, and yet while your brothers and sisters may be offered some small salvation, you have been proved unworthy. It is true: look how your fleshy shells now mirror the foul rot within."
He cleared his throat, choking coughs preventing him from talking for a minute or two as he recovered. The soldiers ignored this, continuing to show no reaction. Finally, his eyes watering, the Grey Man continued.
"But our Emperor is a merciful one, and his servants eager to enact his wise judgement. And so a place has been found for you, despite your worthlessness. You may serve Him even now. Soldiers, seize the first one and unhook him from his fellows. Take him to the chamber."
**************************
Vassili fell as the tall soldier pushed him into the room, and although he flung his arms out to save himself, the little strength he had left was not enough even to prevent with wasted form from striking the floor. As he lay there, mustering the strength to pull himself up, he heard the two sets of doors thud shut behind him. Pulling himself up, he glanced at his surroundings through eyes that threatened to shut at any moment. Looking around, he could see only walls, and the doors that he had just been pushed through. A closed circuit television camera was mounted on the ceiling, tracking his every movement with some kind of sensor. He walked to the doors, observing that the electronic eye of the camera continued to follow him. He pushed on it, noticed that it had failed to give at all, then began to pound feebly and uselessly on the hard featureless metal. Finally he took five steps back and tried to shoulder charge the door, but in his state he bounced off it and landed in a heap on the floor.
And then with a shock that made his blood run cold, he heard a hiss of escaping air from somewhere above him. Immediately his entire life flashed before his eyes: his childhood in the free state of Marenna, before it was conquered and sacked by the soldiers of Helfaer, the vaunted Eagles of the Ash Desert. His terror and anguish as his city was shelled, buildings wrecked and burning across every district, parks of ancient trees being reduced to pockmarked, ash-strewn mud fields, picturesque plazas surrounded by family-owned cafes blasted apart, streets littered with shattered glass and cream brick. And bodies, of course, broken, bloody, and discarded. His numbness as he was herded into a Behemoth by faceless men-at-arms, and then the year of hell, digging iron for the Helfaer war machine.
As the gas hissed from the pipe above him, he knew with a cold dread that he would die in this cramped room. Already he could feel his eyes beginning to water, his throat and lungs burning from the poison in the air. He screamed and dropped to his knees as pain lanced through his entire body, bent double as he coughed violently. Blood spattered against the white floor, but he kept on coughing, unable to stop. His chest felt as if it was being swallowed by hungry flame, his throat as if it would tear at any moment, because surely the sandpaper had already worked its way through. He flopped forwards, blood pouring from his mouth, his nose. His face hit the ground and there was a sickening crack as his nose broke. He kicked feebly, still coughing his ruined lungs into oblivion. And then, with a final burst of pain that made him feel as if he were being carved in two, his vision went black and his weakening struggles stopped completely.
The Grey Man sat by the monitor, ticking boxes frantically as the gas was pumped from the room, until finally two soldiers entered the gas chamber and dragged the lifeless man roughly from the room. A third used a hose to remove the blood from the floor, and a minute later another prisoner was flung in. One down, twenty-nine to go.
ooc: Although I only mentioned one truck, several more will be arriving, enough that it would be noticed by satellites. Seeing as my prison camps are fairly common knowledge, heavy traffic from them to an unknown facility could be pretty suspicious, huh? Especially with all the chemical tankers that would arrive as well.
At the closed end of the unloading bay, a door opened. The man who stepped through was remarkable in his greyness. His suit and tie were grey, his eyes were grey, his hair was grey. Even his skin was tinged with grey from a lifetime in the ash desert. Under one arm he held a clipboard, and a pen protruded from his breast pocket. A pair of steel-framed spectacles perched on his pointed nose, catching the harsh light occasionally and giving them a shine that looked completely out of place on this figure. He walked towards the massive tracked vehicle with no attempt at hurry, despite the obvious tension of the soldiers. Finally, reaching the vehicle, he looked up at the raised cab.
"Lower the ramp!"
The man nearest to him saluted, then ducked away inside the cab. A second later there was a clank and then a hiss as the locks disengaged and the ramp began to drop on its hydraulics. The room fell silent except for the sound of the ramp dropping, every pair of eyes fixed on what lay behind.
The end of the ramp hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud that echoed wildly. The first light of eight hours poured into the cargo hold of the vehicle, revealing what was inside. Men, women, children, their wrists and ankles chained together, allowing only a minimum of movement. Each one barely able to stand, their ribs jutting from wasted chests, limbs spindly and seeming barely able to function. Their hair hung lank and greasy, and they remained filthy from the labour camp that they had been brought from, an iron mine in the Spine of Leviathan mountain range. Each one had not had water for a day, or food for three. They had been kept first in the loading bay at the mine, and then they had endured an agonising, dark, hellishly hot journey in the bowels of the Behemoth.
But it was their eyes that were most striking. Bloodshot from tiredness, they were the eyes of corpses, without emotion, without shine. They were eyes that had seen only suffering and death for years on end, and that saw no future for themselves besides being gradually starved, beaten, and worked to death. And even in death they would know no peace, their bodies dumped into decomposition vats or ground up by vast gears to feed to their old comrades, dumped into the gruel by overseers who claimed that the mysterious chunks of meat were chicken.
The squad leader motioned with his rifle that the slaves should come out, and was satisfied to see that they were sufficiently broken to obey without question. While anomalies were rare they could be dangerous, hence the assault rifles. The first, a man with a shredded right arm from an encounter with the business end of a rock drill, forced himself up and began to descend the ramp. Each slave had been chained to the next, and so like some pale, emaciated centipede, the slaves began their slow, agonised shuffle down the ramp to the floor below. The soldiers maintained their positions, watchful for any abnormal movement by any of the slaves. And the Grey Man stood silently by, his pen scraping against the clipboard, recording their branded identification numbers and their physical deformities that made them no longer capable of work.
As the final slave was marked off, the soldiers backed the group up against the wall. The Grey Man stepped forward, and began to speak in a quiet, deadpan voice that sounded so bereft of emotion that it could have been a machine speaking.
"Slaves, you have been brought here because even the labour camps would not have you. You had been offered the chance to redeem for your crimes through toil in the service of Helfaer, and yet while your brothers and sisters may be offered some small salvation, you have been proved unworthy. It is true: look how your fleshy shells now mirror the foul rot within."
He cleared his throat, choking coughs preventing him from talking for a minute or two as he recovered. The soldiers ignored this, continuing to show no reaction. Finally, his eyes watering, the Grey Man continued.
"But our Emperor is a merciful one, and his servants eager to enact his wise judgement. And so a place has been found for you, despite your worthlessness. You may serve Him even now. Soldiers, seize the first one and unhook him from his fellows. Take him to the chamber."
**************************
Vassili fell as the tall soldier pushed him into the room, and although he flung his arms out to save himself, the little strength he had left was not enough even to prevent with wasted form from striking the floor. As he lay there, mustering the strength to pull himself up, he heard the two sets of doors thud shut behind him. Pulling himself up, he glanced at his surroundings through eyes that threatened to shut at any moment. Looking around, he could see only walls, and the doors that he had just been pushed through. A closed circuit television camera was mounted on the ceiling, tracking his every movement with some kind of sensor. He walked to the doors, observing that the electronic eye of the camera continued to follow him. He pushed on it, noticed that it had failed to give at all, then began to pound feebly and uselessly on the hard featureless metal. Finally he took five steps back and tried to shoulder charge the door, but in his state he bounced off it and landed in a heap on the floor.
And then with a shock that made his blood run cold, he heard a hiss of escaping air from somewhere above him. Immediately his entire life flashed before his eyes: his childhood in the free state of Marenna, before it was conquered and sacked by the soldiers of Helfaer, the vaunted Eagles of the Ash Desert. His terror and anguish as his city was shelled, buildings wrecked and burning across every district, parks of ancient trees being reduced to pockmarked, ash-strewn mud fields, picturesque plazas surrounded by family-owned cafes blasted apart, streets littered with shattered glass and cream brick. And bodies, of course, broken, bloody, and discarded. His numbness as he was herded into a Behemoth by faceless men-at-arms, and then the year of hell, digging iron for the Helfaer war machine.
As the gas hissed from the pipe above him, he knew with a cold dread that he would die in this cramped room. Already he could feel his eyes beginning to water, his throat and lungs burning from the poison in the air. He screamed and dropped to his knees as pain lanced through his entire body, bent double as he coughed violently. Blood spattered against the white floor, but he kept on coughing, unable to stop. His chest felt as if it was being swallowed by hungry flame, his throat as if it would tear at any moment, because surely the sandpaper had already worked its way through. He flopped forwards, blood pouring from his mouth, his nose. His face hit the ground and there was a sickening crack as his nose broke. He kicked feebly, still coughing his ruined lungs into oblivion. And then, with a final burst of pain that made him feel as if he were being carved in two, his vision went black and his weakening struggles stopped completely.
The Grey Man sat by the monitor, ticking boxes frantically as the gas was pumped from the room, until finally two soldiers entered the gas chamber and dragged the lifeless man roughly from the room. A third used a hose to remove the blood from the floor, and a minute later another prisoner was flung in. One down, twenty-nine to go.
ooc: Although I only mentioned one truck, several more will be arriving, enough that it would be noticed by satellites. Seeing as my prison camps are fairly common knowledge, heavy traffic from them to an unknown facility could be pretty suspicious, huh? Especially with all the chemical tankers that would arrive as well.