NationStates Jolt Archive

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The Project



Cecily Garcia Tarragón Lockhelm, more known as Cecily Lockhelm, was born in 9th of February of 2018, daughter of the Second Spanish Revolution war hero Camilla Garcia Tarragón and of the British anarchist press publisher Todd Lockhelm, and has been elected head of State in 2039, being the youngest of all candidates. That is what people know, what they don't is that Cecily Lockhelm belongs to something else rather than only what is there of a government, and such organization has given her a tempting proposal out of a casual discussion of foreign events. Being a brash, still young lady with a certain preference for guns over politics and a great chance for a change of career, Cecily has agreed to join a strange project to form a secretive elite force of "super-soldiers", while supposedly they would arrange for her unofficial death. And then, only darkness came.

Now she was at their mercy, for nobody would ever look for her, presumed dead, or maybe not, for the influence of the organization behind it makes every possibility not seem far-fetched. Perhaps it could have been a extremely foolish decision, even though she trusted the mysterious organization behind such unnamed project, and organization she secretly belongs to as well. Something obscure enough for hundreds of dedicated conspiracy theory websites to be done about, provided somehow its extremely shady nature was whistleblown.

This is the true biography of Cecily Lockhelm after 18th of October of 2039, the day when she has taken a decision that would change forever her life, the day she volunteered for The Project. Where would such events lead in the wake of history, and what more might she do to shape the events of the world, this time likely in secrecy, is something that only the future can tell.

Preface

Unfortunately, I have abandoned the story I began in The Invisible Network (http://forums3.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=548041), due to several reasons, particularly because I found no truly satisfying manner of continuing it without leaving too many plot holes. Regardless of the fact it has been abandoned, many of the elements I conceptualized there have become used with a certain frequency in my RPs, and I have not abandoned the concept behind it for storywriting and RPing. Essentially, this is a character-centric story about some secret black project one is suddenly thrown at, with no turning back. It’ll explain lots of things, and also leave lots of unanswered questions, but hopefully not enough to have a mediocre ending like that of most Half-life games, for a good plot doesn’t give everything away at once, nor it hides too much to the point of frustrating a reader. Nevertheless, I like to write, and I hope you’ll find the reading as enjoyable as I find to write. As for my primary sources of inspiration, let this image speak for itself:

http://www.texemarrs.com/images/masonic_jews_plot_title.gif

Nonetheless, there’ll be no Jewmason or Jew gold here, even because the “Jews” bandwagon is too old in International Incidents, and quite discredited of a trope. Just for the sake of randomness then, an Illuminatus! Trilogy quote that makes lots of sense in this story:

”Organize for anarchy!”

http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/IndLibProhib.jpg

Index

Chapter 1: Rebirth (http://forums3.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=14221572&postcount=3)
Chapter 2: Rememberance
Chapter 3: The War of Art
Chapter 4: In a Single Day
Chapter 5*: Crimson Sonata
Chapter 6*: Leibowitz Chant
Chapter 7: The Unsung

*Chapters marked in such way are planned as collaborative roleplays rather than stories where I shall contact the respective RPers once they are about to start, and thus, might not occur depending whether or not the players of involved foreign NationStates will agree with the collaborative unfolding of events. Their outcome is not in any way planned, as it will depend upon interaction with other roleplayers.

http://www.life.uiuc.edu/ib/494/images/genome.jpg

Chapter 1: Rebirth

Governments across the world have developed manners to avoid people from faking their true identities, and yet, there were places where documents were irrelevant, were the culture was founded on informal sense of honor rather than into the bureaucracy of ID cards, registers and certificates, where a man could be born with nothing ever registered about him, for in places with no government, identity cards were completely irrelevant. For those who truly wished to not be identified, however, very little choices existed, some clever, some truly creative, but none of them effectively permanent and lasting. For some, to develop a manner of circumventing these limitations was crucial. Perhaps they already existed, but those who created them were unwilling to share them out of principle, or perhaps of fear.

There was very little to be certain of, and a serious dizziness that made it difficult for her to even set her eyes open. The darkness of her closed eyes was a barrier to a possible understanding of all that happened, and her mind was hazy, distraught like if she has been doped. Maybe a day was gone, maybe more, but somehow, everything was strange. A serious itching in her very eyes was nearly convincing her to move, for somehow the very muscles of her arms were unwilling to cooperate with such will, pressing her to attempt the gathering of more information. It was however only part of it. The entirety of her head, including her face, was itching, and she felt a serious soreness in her fingers and toes, while she felt a strange bleeding inside her mouth. However, she also had other sensations. It was like nearly her entire body has been draped in bandages, and she finally realized she could not open her eyes, for what seemed to be two gazes have been placed over them. Nor she could move her arms, which were safely held in a surgical table. It was very unsettling, and even more that she could not remember much. A question was continually coming to her mind about her predicament, to which she had no idea about. Many questions, and little answers permeated her thoughts.

Where the hell am I? Who did this to me? What have they done to me?

There was only the sound of a heartbeat sensor, likely measuring her heartbeats, as she realized she was in a medical facility of sorts. The taste of blood in her mouth made to her the decision of speaking extremely difficult, while she felt a soreness in her throat as well, like if needles and surgical instruments came to and fro it, and the unsettling sensations served as powerful psychological restraints for her to speak, to ask for answers whoever did such thing to her would likely not give. But it was not everything, and as time passed, she began to feel more things amiss. The pressure of two bandages came to her both nipples, which also felt, like much of her body, sore, but most critical of all, was how she could feel them uniformly, like if her chest has been completely flattened, like if her breasts have been removed. Her memory, still ridden with oblivion about many facts, forgot some fundamental questions as new ones arrived in her thoughts:

What the hell? What sort of sicko would do this to me? Why would someone do this to me?

Suddenly, she remembered of something. It was only the memory of something she has learned once. There were legends of women known as the Amazons, who supposedly removed their right breasts to fight better, and to be able to aim their bows and arrows. Still, there was no sense in what happened, and there were no bows and arrows anymore. The Amazons were a legend after all, a myth based on sparse historical evidences. However, the same could be said of conspiracy theories, and there was no more appropriate way to describe the set of experiences she was currently standing. The multiple stitches that were likely around her surgically messed body, the soreness, the itching, and yet, luckily, no pain, as her senses were numbed by what could only be anesthesia. Only nothingness, and a strange realization, as the most important of all questions finally managed to arrive at her mind, as she forgot something that was perhaps the most important piece of information:

Who am I?

It was an agonizing sensation, the helplessness, the realization that perhaps she was only a guinea pig, an experiment waiting its fateful end. She feared death, that perhaps the reaper was already knocking the door in the quarter of wherever she was interned. From the way she realized the number of surgeries they have likely done at her, it was something of wonder how she still was alive. The itching on the eyes however, was nearly unbearable, as it was in the eyes rather than in the eyelids, and even one mistaken, minor move of her eyeballs was enough to make a nearly unbearable itching, amplified by the motion. She simply did her best to stay still, and to attempt to, even at such condition, sleep. There was nothing that could be done to change that, and feeling like a puppet whose fate was already determined, she simply consented, and awaited for perhaps one opportunity to find a reason behind everything, if one would ever come.

Suddenly, among a myriad of unpleasant sensations, the sound of the heartbeat sensor, of a turned on computer and of what seemed to be an air conditioning system became shared noises with solid footsteps into what could only be a linoleum floor. Suddenly, in a pace that indicate a patient, calm walk, the footsteps seemed closer, and were an alleviation, for to focus in them allowed for her to ignore part of the many itching and soreness across her body. The sounds came close enough to be right next to her bed, when finally, the cadence of steps was gone. Whoever went there was likely observing her, as she attempted to make a minor movement, raising slightly the pinky finger of her right hand. The soreness on it increased threefold, but fortunately a good distraction came, as a male voice spoke:

”Ah, you are awake. I am your physician, good to see you are well, but you still need to rest. I am sure you have many questions, but you still have to recover first. I won’t let you suffer, it would be plain wrong, and you don’t have to stay awake during your recovery. I wish you nice dreams. I’ll see to it that you only wake up again once you are in better conditions, so don’t worry. Good night.”

She wished to ask him questions, but the sensation of blood and cotton inside her mouth, the feeling of blood in her throat and the sensation something could literally pop off its place if she did too much impeached her from trying. It was an unpleasant sensation, even behind the effects of anesthesia, and she could do nothing but allow for the chemistry to put her back into unconsciousness. As her eyes were already close, suddenly the unpleasantness faded away, and she did not even manage to perceive as she blacked out.

´Perhaps a memory rather than a dream, everything was dark, and she simply could be aware that there were peers next to her, and that she was in a sort of meeting room, sitting upon a comfortable, foamed wooden chair. She could not remember what she heard, or spoke before, only that a man said to her, in an inviting manner, like if she has made a choice he was glad about:

"Good, welcome to the Project…”

And suddenly the memory vanished, as rightfully, she allowed for her most serene imaginations to flow. Dreams of a perfect world, of a paradise, where she stood with her family, whose faces seemed to have been randomly imaged however, united and free. She dreamed with a place of nature, with meadows, streams of clear water and many, majestic trees. A serenity that could not easily end, but still something that would change, for all of a sudden, the calmness of the dream was interrupted by a beeping sound, and suddenly she looked at the tree she rested next to, and saw, half-buried to one of its roots, a brick of C-4 with a timer which counted only five seconds.

Four, three, two, one and the dream vanished, for not even in her dreams, she was completely free from the pondering of reality, and of what have likely succeeded in her past. Answers perhaps were about to come, once she regained again, her consciousness.

Still feeling the cuddling touch of a pillow was not enough to dismiss fears, doubts and the anxiety of change. Most people are afraid of change, even among those who have lived in a cultural background as revolutionary as that of the Confederacy, for it was a known fact, that most changes benefit few at the expense of many, for most changes are done by the planned actions of those with wealth and power, and should a supposedly perfect social order be changed, the risk of it becoming flawed was far greater than that of it becoming better. However, no external change could reach the same impact, and bring the same fears of a change which seemed to have happened into the very body of a person, a change which came completely unexpected, storming uncertainty and confusing the mind enough to difficult even the regathering of past memories.

A relaxing but quick awakening proceeded, as the woman, now completely aware, rose from the matress, obviously not the same she was placed over when she was in a surgical table. In fact, there was even the chirping of birds, and nothing strange at all about the environment. With her eyes opened, and her vision as clear as before, she now easily remembered who she was, her name echoing through the mind.

Cecily Lockhelm

Opening a drawer, Cecily grabbed a spare T-shirt from the bedroom, her bedroom, and undressed the pajamas she was wearing. There was nothing strange, it seemed, perhaps everything was just a bad dream, a delusion, or perhaps a sort of message from her subconscious to herself, which meaning couldn't be given with a few words. The meaning of looking down to scan her own bosom however, came as an immediate shock to her, for now her chest seemed as flat as the chest of a male, something far unnatural, and strangely, there were no surgical scars.

Gazing at the open palm of her hands, Cecily notice how not only they seemed to have become slightly grown and more male-like, but also of a tan skin color and completely devoid of fingerprints and soon she began to despair, realizing that it was no nightmare. To check the rest, first she looked at her feet, confirming that their prints were also gone. At last, there was one more thing to do to realize the extent of such change, and thus Cecily opened a nearby closet, the one she used for storing the ever rare paperwork, and looked at an attached mirror to its left door.

Her eyes weren't exactly like the way she saw them in the reflection, for even if they remained blue, there were blatant differences in the iris shape and in its blood patterns, neither her hair was black, but brown. Her nose, her cheeks, every facial feature of her has been changed to a somewhat middle eastener phenotype, and thus, in a shift of foolishness, she shouted to nobody:

"What have you done to me?"

Cecily soon solved the last piece to identify what happened with her, for immediately she noticed the difference, for her voice was far deeper, and no relation could be set with her previous timbre. Her voice, her skin, her face, her fingerprints. For some purposed, they have made her a new person, and that, she already knew. Opening the door of the bedroom and sighing, she immediately noticed a man in a medic uniform, patiently awaiting behind the doorway, and beyond him, a large, asseptic corridor, not like her home, showing soon that she was in an imitation of her bedroom.

"Very well," the doctor said, placing a comforting hand over her shoulder, "you know I have much to explain, but you have been explained that you'd have to sacrifice your social acceptance, I believe, and that you would go under surgical intervention."

"Yes, I see you drove testosterone into my body," Cecily shrugged, "and I wouldn't be surprised if now I will never be able to have a child through means other than cloning."

"Most features of the female gender aren't appropriate for warfare," he said openly, as he began to walk towards the corridor, motioning for her to follow, "yet women have a far better endurance than most men, because bearing children isn't trivial... you now have the same physical strength of males, no issues with periods, and no breasts to possibly disrupt aiming."

"Ha, so you are building an androgynous, sterile army of super-soldiers, that is original," Cecily scoffed as the doctor was about to open the door to the other end of the corridor, "as I never heard about it, I suppose whatever mission I may be sent at won't be public."

In truth, she knew it. There was nothing to complain. They told her she would have to sacrifice many things, she volunteered herself, and they hinted that intensive surgeries would have to be performed at her body for everything to happen, whoever they truly were. What made her more curious was to know who were such unconventional enemies, if they could be identified.

"Each thing at its time, for now you are not ready yet for field operations, I know you had combat experience facing common thugs," the doctor explained, interrupting the act of pulling the doorknob, "but like you probably were told, this isn't about conventional enemies. Anyway, you are right now still a head of State, participating of dull events and ceremonies."

"Oh, the training," Cecily nodded, "when they said lots of patience, they weren't kidding. Now, I cannot exist in two places at the same time unless..."

"You were cloned a few months before your birth," again, without any urge to hide information, the doctor explained, "because you are genetically important, Cecily, but don't let it get over in your head, right? Now let me show you something you'll not see anywhere else."

"The aliens who helped the air force in the development of stealth fighters?" she asked humorously, trying to get away from the confusion that was falling over her mind.

"No, this." the doctor briefly answered, opening the door slowly, until it finally became sufficiently open for Cecily to realize what lied beyond.