ISIS INSTITUTE, STRAFE ISLAND
10:09 AM, JUNE 14TH, 2026
Jason - B1 Men's Washroom
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The first thing you probably felt as your body returned to consciousness was the damp, cool feel of checkerboard tiles beneath your cheeks. With a pulsing headache, burning eyes and limbs heaving with soreness, you might have rolled over only to be blinded by the corona of white light beaming down onto your face from the ceiling light. While your ears ring, you picked out the distinct sound of dull silence over the echos created by the rolling and tossing of your body against the large, black-and-white floor tiles of what looks like... a washroom. You managed to steady yourself enough to glimpse your surroundings. The washrooms of the ISIS Institute -- that was definitely what it was, based on the ISIS logo printed on the hand dryer next to the row of fancy sinks below the gigantic, crystal clear rectangular mirror that cast an image of your grizzled form standing ahead of the four bathroom stalls behind you, next a row of urinals in the corner of the room. Focus came difficult for a while; the side of your head had pounded for gods-knew-how long on the floor, but that may not have been as important as your missing gear.
Your stood in but plain battledress: simple olive drab fatigues employed by nearly every armed force in the world and functional black combat boots, minus your nametag and the insignias bearing your rank having been somehow torn from the chest and shoulders. Looking around, you might see the door at the other end of the rather spacious room locked tight, the dim glow of an electronic lock's keypad mounted on the wall next the door. You barely had an idea over where you were, and the memories were only just coming back to you, but you seemed... intact. Looking down, you saw no open injuries on your body, but a curious number of small, recently-healed scars were ridden across your arms, legs and chest as if you had been healed in your time out. You looked down to your wrist, and your watch was not there. The digital clock mounted above the door, too, lay black with inactivity.
But then a swirl of colors pulsed before your eyes, and like a phantom, a blue row of letters and numbers appeared before your eyes, flickering briefly. SYRA. More text and graphics appeared, highlighting ambient temperature, latitude and longitude, your heart rate...
Among the information was a date: June 14th, 2026. But it was supposed to be January.
Staff Sergeant Argo. You ar-are now awa-k-k-kening from a c-comatose period of app-prox-im-im-imately 154 days. Your curr-en-ent location is the ISIS Institu-tu-ta-te on Strafe Island. SYRA's voice, unlike unusual, was a blistering pain to listen to. Suddenly, she was chattering, skipping words and speaking in grainy monotone... not like the down to earth and serious SYRA you were accustomed to. Perhaps she was malfunctioning after 154 days.
I re-reh-recommend a s-self die-ah-ahgnostic to check for d-d-defects. I thuh-then recommend you egress ah-out the d-door to your left for f-further briefing. I w-will unlock it on yah-your command. stammered out SYRA in her same glitchy tone.
What was happening?
The first thing you probably felt as your body returned to consciousness was the damp, cool feel of checkerboard tiles beneath your cheeks. With a pulsing headache, burning eyes and limbs heaving with soreness, you might have rolled over only to be blinded by the corona of white light beaming down onto your face from the ceiling light. While your ears ring, you picked out the distinct sound of dull silence over the echos created by the rolling and tossing of your body against the large, black-and-white floor tiles of what looks like... a washroom. You managed to steady yourself enough to glimpse your surroundings. The washrooms of the ISIS Institute -- that was definitely what it was, based on the ISIS logo printed on the hand dryer next to the row of fancy sinks below the gigantic, crystal clear rectangular mirror that cast an image of your grizzled form standing ahead of the four bathroom stalls behind you, next a row of urinals in the corner of the room. Focus came difficult for a while; the side of your head had pounded for gods-knew-how long on the floor, but that may not have been as important as your missing gear.
Your stood in but plain battledress: simple olive drab fatigues employed by nearly every armed force in the world and functional black combat boots, minus your nametag and the insignias bearing your rank having been somehow torn from the chest and shoulders. Looking around, you might see the door at the other end of the rather spacious room locked tight, the dim glow of an electronic lock's keypad mounted on the wall next the door. You barely had an idea over where you were, and the memories were only just coming back to you, but you seemed... intact. Looking down, you saw no open injuries on your body, but a curious number of small, recently-healed scars were ridden across your arms, legs and chest as if you had been healed in your time out. You looked down to your wrist, and your watch was not there. The digital clock mounted above the door, too, lay black with inactivity.
But then a swirl of colors pulsed before your eyes, and like a phantom, a blue row of letters and numbers appeared before your eyes, flickering briefly. SYRA. More text and graphics appeared, highlighting ambient temperature, latitude and longitude, your heart rate...
Among the information was a date: June 14th, 2026. But it was supposed to be January.
Staff Sergeant Argo. You ar-are now awa-k-k-kening from a c-comatose period of app-prox-im-im-imately 154 days. Your curr-en-ent location is the ISIS Institu-tu-ta-te on Strafe Island. SYRA's voice, unlike unusual, was a blistering pain to listen to. Suddenly, she was chattering, skipping words and speaking in grainy monotone... not like the down to earth and serious SYRA you were accustomed to. Perhaps she was malfunctioning after 154 days.
I re-reh-recommend a s-self die-ah-ahgnostic to check for d-d-defects. I thuh-then recommend you egress ah-out the d-door to your left for f-further briefing. I w-will unlock it on yah-your command. stammered out SYRA in her same glitchy tone.
What was happening?
Ami - West Quarter, L6 Private Quarters 9
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The feel of soft bedding beneath your body did strangely little to quell the soreness you felt yourself rocked with as soon as you awoke to the uncommon sensation of warmth, comfort and ease that came from a heated room. The neatly-painted beige ceiling above you seemed rather calm, as was the thick bed you found yourself lying on -- in but a simple black shirt, combat leggings and socks -- as you came to. The dull whish of the ceiling fan fixed to the center of the room rung in your ears, which felt just as hollow and sore as you did right now. After you looked up, you might find your surroundings to be that of a cozy apartment rather than... the ISIS Institute? It must have been, from the ISIS insignia printed onto the sealed white door of the cozy, carpeted room. Near the bed, you might see a fancy glass coffee table with a small pack and a military weapons container atop it, surrounded by numerous comfy chairs and couches and a small flatscreen television. A small desk, plastered with documents and files of all kinds lay off to one corner, while the soft orange-white lamp in the corner gave the windowless room a soft, isolated feeling. Most of all, a modular, sleek white machine next your bed gave out a pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat as the cord extended to it clamped down around your finger. Strange.
Though the fog of dizziness still clouded your mind, you still managed to spy the unusual date upon the digital clock on the nightstand next the bed you lay on: June 14th. Five months after you last remember even being awake...
Though you were sore and obviously confused, however you seemed uninjured. A few freshly mended scars were present on your body -- as if you had received some very professional medical treatment -- but no significant trauma was to be had. Immediately, your medical instinct had you knowing you would be at tip-top shape in no time. As soon as you would have rose from your bed, though, a small "thunk" could be heard as an object struck the floor. You looked to your feet: it was a... plastic bottle of soda? Still cold, too, judging from how it felt through your socks. A rather random sight, but not an unwelcome one; your throat was beginning to feel parched after what was probably months unconscious. The numbers on the vitals monitoring device still attached to you surged up as you moved.
But a sudden beeping nearly caught you off guard. You spun around: there was a sleek black PDA -- the same issued to Meteor personnel -- on the desk at the far side of the room, and it was flashing and ringing in a vie for your attention out of nowhere.
This was too strange.
The feel of soft bedding beneath your body did strangely little to quell the soreness you felt yourself rocked with as soon as you awoke to the uncommon sensation of warmth, comfort and ease that came from a heated room. The neatly-painted beige ceiling above you seemed rather calm, as was the thick bed you found yourself lying on -- in but a simple black shirt, combat leggings and socks -- as you came to. The dull whish of the ceiling fan fixed to the center of the room rung in your ears, which felt just as hollow and sore as you did right now. After you looked up, you might find your surroundings to be that of a cozy apartment rather than... the ISIS Institute? It must have been, from the ISIS insignia printed onto the sealed white door of the cozy, carpeted room. Near the bed, you might see a fancy glass coffee table with a small pack and a military weapons container atop it, surrounded by numerous comfy chairs and couches and a small flatscreen television. A small desk, plastered with documents and files of all kinds lay off to one corner, while the soft orange-white lamp in the corner gave the windowless room a soft, isolated feeling. Most of all, a modular, sleek white machine next your bed gave out a pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat as the cord extended to it clamped down around your finger. Strange.
Though the fog of dizziness still clouded your mind, you still managed to spy the unusual date upon the digital clock on the nightstand next the bed you lay on: June 14th. Five months after you last remember even being awake...
Though you were sore and obviously confused, however you seemed uninjured. A few freshly mended scars were present on your body -- as if you had received some very professional medical treatment -- but no significant trauma was to be had. Immediately, your medical instinct had you knowing you would be at tip-top shape in no time. As soon as you would have rose from your bed, though, a small "thunk" could be heard as an object struck the floor. You looked to your feet: it was a... plastic bottle of soda? Still cold, too, judging from how it felt through your socks. A rather random sight, but not an unwelcome one; your throat was beginning to feel parched after what was probably months unconscious. The numbers on the vitals monitoring device still attached to you surged up as you moved.
But a sudden beeping nearly caught you off guard. You spun around: there was a sleek black PDA -- the same issued to Meteor personnel -- on the desk at the far side of the room, and it was flashing and ringing in a vie for your attention out of nowhere.
This was too strange.
Raymond - East Quarter, L9 Cybernetics Laboratory 3
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
As you awoke, the influence and taste of machines and computers in the air became evident. Your every limb was sore, and your head pounded -- especially from the quiet orchestra of clicks, beeps and hums that came from whatever was nearby -- and the bright light shining down onto your face just as you opened your eyes wasn't helping either. To sit up, though, was almost tempting. The automated, recliner-like chair you found yourself sitting on -- no, bound to, seeing the metallic restraints clamped around your ankles and wrists -- was awfully comfortable, minus the restraints. Though, for how much you could turn your head, you could see a lot. The room you found yourself looking at had a black, gray and silver sheen across every face: sleek metal tables were laden with disassembled computer parts, and hyper-advanced computers and terminals lining every wall and corner glowed a rainbow of colors from the tubes of coolant liquid flowing through them, while their screens displayed meaningless lines upon lines of characters you could not even begin to comprehend. Next to the large chair you sat restrained in, as well, a table with a small tray of nanite autoinjectors could be seen... not to mention the large military weapons crate that sat shoved rather half-ass into the corner, like it was too heavy for someone to lift it.
Your instinct knew the two doors at opposite ends of the room's southern walls were sealed. Predictable for the ISIS Institute. It could not have been anywhere else; each computer and machine here reeked of the Institute's collective genius, were the large black insignia across the doors not evidence enough. The questions that came to mind, though, were the obvious ones: where? why? how? when? And where was your gear? Looking down, you saw yourself in only a pair of unmarked combat leggings, socks and a black shirt: the bare minimum of clothing for a soldier on a battlefield, just about.
Your vision flickered painfully, drawing irritation as an electric feeling crawled up and down your spine before fading away just as phantom-like lines of color began to etch into existence in front of your eyes, seeming to hover in the air as they materialized into graphic upon graphic of varied information, a digital crosshair bouncing around from corner to corner to linger on each item in your vision before disappearing to promote view of the other blue text -- including geographic coordinates, room temperature (16 degrees, in case you had to know), a precise location ("Cybernetics Laboratory 3") and a radar display -- in front of your eyes. Above all, a date stood out: June 14th, 2026. But that wasn't supposed to be for five months?
Welcome back to duty, Sergeant Kilithar. Remain still. You have been comatose for approximately 154 days and I've documented enough information that requires manual processing I have deemed it should not be processed in one session. SYRA's neutral and to-the-point voice spoke in your head. It was comforting to hear, in a way. Its presence inside your head meant her voice was oddly natural and easy to listen to, despite her sometimes abrasive words when you didn't follow the mission. You are clear of physical trauma or viral infection, but I expect you are feeling dazed and sore. Pace yourself. It is most logical. spoke the AI. She was right, as always.
In case you are wondering, these restraints were not placed under my authority. However, I'll release them now. SYRA then added. The words "OM-200 Operating Chair Restraints Unlocked" flashed as text before your eyes, and as promised the restraints slowly retracted, leaving you with sore wrists and ankles, but your freedom.
Now to find out what was going on.
As you awoke, the influence and taste of machines and computers in the air became evident. Your every limb was sore, and your head pounded -- especially from the quiet orchestra of clicks, beeps and hums that came from whatever was nearby -- and the bright light shining down onto your face just as you opened your eyes wasn't helping either. To sit up, though, was almost tempting. The automated, recliner-like chair you found yourself sitting on -- no, bound to, seeing the metallic restraints clamped around your ankles and wrists -- was awfully comfortable, minus the restraints. Though, for how much you could turn your head, you could see a lot. The room you found yourself looking at had a black, gray and silver sheen across every face: sleek metal tables were laden with disassembled computer parts, and hyper-advanced computers and terminals lining every wall and corner glowed a rainbow of colors from the tubes of coolant liquid flowing through them, while their screens displayed meaningless lines upon lines of characters you could not even begin to comprehend. Next to the large chair you sat restrained in, as well, a table with a small tray of nanite autoinjectors could be seen... not to mention the large military weapons crate that sat shoved rather half-ass into the corner, like it was too heavy for someone to lift it.
Your instinct knew the two doors at opposite ends of the room's southern walls were sealed. Predictable for the ISIS Institute. It could not have been anywhere else; each computer and machine here reeked of the Institute's collective genius, were the large black insignia across the doors not evidence enough. The questions that came to mind, though, were the obvious ones: where? why? how? when? And where was your gear? Looking down, you saw yourself in only a pair of unmarked combat leggings, socks and a black shirt: the bare minimum of clothing for a soldier on a battlefield, just about.
Your vision flickered painfully, drawing irritation as an electric feeling crawled up and down your spine before fading away just as phantom-like lines of color began to etch into existence in front of your eyes, seeming to hover in the air as they materialized into graphic upon graphic of varied information, a digital crosshair bouncing around from corner to corner to linger on each item in your vision before disappearing to promote view of the other blue text -- including geographic coordinates, room temperature (16 degrees, in case you had to know), a precise location ("Cybernetics Laboratory 3") and a radar display -- in front of your eyes. Above all, a date stood out: June 14th, 2026. But that wasn't supposed to be for five months?
Welcome back to duty, Sergeant Kilithar. Remain still. You have been comatose for approximately 154 days and I've documented enough information that requires manual processing I have deemed it should not be processed in one session. SYRA's neutral and to-the-point voice spoke in your head. It was comforting to hear, in a way. Its presence inside your head meant her voice was oddly natural and easy to listen to, despite her sometimes abrasive words when you didn't follow the mission. You are clear of physical trauma or viral infection, but I expect you are feeling dazed and sore. Pace yourself. It is most logical. spoke the AI. She was right, as always.
In case you are wondering, these restraints were not placed under my authority. However, I'll release them now. SYRA then added. The words "OM-200 Operating Chair Restraints Unlocked" flashed as text before your eyes, and as promised the restraints slowly retracted, leaving you with sore wrists and ankles, but your freedom.
Now to find out what was going on.
Daniel - South Quarter, L1 Security Room 1
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The bedding you felt beneath you as your eyes open was more equivalent to the hard plastic of a desk than the soft cotton of a bed. Which is probably because it precisely was a desk. You found your upper body sprawled out across its surface, your legs tucked uncomfortably beneath the chair you sat on much to the protest of your aching limbs and sore skull, which yearned for something more comfortable as you shuffled back to consciousness. Your head pounded from the strange coma, which had your sluggish mind flooded with questions as the sudden knowledge that this was not at all normal poured into you. You looked around, and spied the sleek amenities only the ISIS Institute could provide. It had to have been that: the display of the phone on the desk had familiar locations within the Institute on speed-dial, and the Institute's insignia itself was emblazoned proudly across every surface of the small square room, which was lined with weapon racks, tables and desks from wall to wall, laden with computers and documents of all kinds. An electronically-sealed door behind you gave exit to the room, while frosted security glass windows -- to your immediate knowledge, controlled by a keypad on the desk which could clear or blur the windows with a press of the button -- lined the walls to give view of what were probably corridors outside.
The soft ceiling lights flickered, seeming just as bored as the rest of the dead silent room which had no outstanding features save for the coffee maker at the far end and the large green military-grade container which laid heavily atop a table in the center of the room.It was yourself, of course, who you'd be paying attention to, most likely. Looking down, you saw yourself dressed in drab black camouflage combat fatigues (minus any nametags or insignia, which were curiously torn off), along with a pair of standard-issue black combat boots you'd known rather well since joining Meteor. And while your body was sore, it did not sting of any injuries, although freshly-healed scars from gods-knew-where laid across your body. It was obvious they'd been professionally treated.
Looking down, you might spy the flickering digital clock on the desk. In tiny characters, it read a date: June 14th, 2026. Nearly... five months after you'd last remembered yourself awakening?
But before you could question much, the computer monitor to your right flickered on as if having sensed your awakening, the holographic keyboard illuminating to life. The screen flashed with meaningless numbers and letters for a solid minute, the screen tearing and flickering before settling on a suspenseful black screen.
For a few tense moments, nothing happened. Then, white and blocky text crawled into existence across the monitor:
SORRY FOR BEING SO CRYPTIC. BUT YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME NOW. I JUST SAW YOU WAKE UP... CAMERA IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM.
The camera in question buzzed as it re-oriented to face you. Who was this person? More text scrawled onto the screen:
I WORK FOR THE ISIS INSTITUTE. YOU'VE BEEN OUT FOR FIVE MONTHS, BUT THERE'S A LOT TO TAKE IN SO I DON'T WANT TO EXPLAIN IT HERE. YOU'RE IN SECURITY ROOM 1 IN THE SOUTH QUARTER OF THE BUILDING. I KNOW THIS IS ALL GOING FAST, BUT THERE IS A LOT YOU SHOULD KNOW. BUT FIRST, THE CRATE ON THE TABLE HAS THINGS IN IT YOU MIGHT LIKE ONCE YOU'RE NOT FEELING LIKE YOU ARE ABOUT TO PASS OUT. CARE TO TAKE A LOOK?
The camera swiveled to face the military crate you'd seen before, a red laser pointer projecting from the camera's corner to highlight it.
This was too strange already... but the keyboard in front of you lay there, in case you wanted to make a reply.
The bedding you felt beneath you as your eyes open was more equivalent to the hard plastic of a desk than the soft cotton of a bed. Which is probably because it precisely was a desk. You found your upper body sprawled out across its surface, your legs tucked uncomfortably beneath the chair you sat on much to the protest of your aching limbs and sore skull, which yearned for something more comfortable as you shuffled back to consciousness. Your head pounded from the strange coma, which had your sluggish mind flooded with questions as the sudden knowledge that this was not at all normal poured into you. You looked around, and spied the sleek amenities only the ISIS Institute could provide. It had to have been that: the display of the phone on the desk had familiar locations within the Institute on speed-dial, and the Institute's insignia itself was emblazoned proudly across every surface of the small square room, which was lined with weapon racks, tables and desks from wall to wall, laden with computers and documents of all kinds. An electronically-sealed door behind you gave exit to the room, while frosted security glass windows -- to your immediate knowledge, controlled by a keypad on the desk which could clear or blur the windows with a press of the button -- lined the walls to give view of what were probably corridors outside.
The soft ceiling lights flickered, seeming just as bored as the rest of the dead silent room which had no outstanding features save for the coffee maker at the far end and the large green military-grade container which laid heavily atop a table in the center of the room.It was yourself, of course, who you'd be paying attention to, most likely. Looking down, you saw yourself dressed in drab black camouflage combat fatigues (minus any nametags or insignia, which were curiously torn off), along with a pair of standard-issue black combat boots you'd known rather well since joining Meteor. And while your body was sore, it did not sting of any injuries, although freshly-healed scars from gods-knew-where laid across your body. It was obvious they'd been professionally treated.
Looking down, you might spy the flickering digital clock on the desk. In tiny characters, it read a date: June 14th, 2026. Nearly... five months after you'd last remembered yourself awakening?
But before you could question much, the computer monitor to your right flickered on as if having sensed your awakening, the holographic keyboard illuminating to life. The screen flashed with meaningless numbers and letters for a solid minute, the screen tearing and flickering before settling on a suspenseful black screen.
For a few tense moments, nothing happened. Then, white and blocky text crawled into existence across the monitor:
SORRY FOR BEING SO CRYPTIC. BUT YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME NOW. I JUST SAW YOU WAKE UP... CAMERA IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM.
The camera in question buzzed as it re-oriented to face you. Who was this person? More text scrawled onto the screen:
I WORK FOR THE ISIS INSTITUTE. YOU'VE BEEN OUT FOR FIVE MONTHS, BUT THERE'S A LOT TO TAKE IN SO I DON'T WANT TO EXPLAIN IT HERE. YOU'RE IN SECURITY ROOM 1 IN THE SOUTH QUARTER OF THE BUILDING. I KNOW THIS IS ALL GOING FAST, BUT THERE IS A LOT YOU SHOULD KNOW. BUT FIRST, THE CRATE ON THE TABLE HAS THINGS IN IT YOU MIGHT LIKE ONCE YOU'RE NOT FEELING LIKE YOU ARE ABOUT TO PASS OUT. CARE TO TAKE A LOOK?
The camera swiveled to face the military crate you'd seen before, a red laser pointer projecting from the camera's corner to highlight it.
This was too strange already... but the keyboard in front of you lay there, in case you wanted to make a reply.
Lily - North Quarter, L8 Medical Laboratory 2
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
It must have been hollow bubbling of liquid in your ear that roused you from your coma, the next instinct to breathe stopped by the shoddy, artificial taste of plastic in your mouth. You flit open your eyes, which were immediately lost in the ocean of swirling purple through which dull silhouettes pierced the color's limits. Cold numbness pressed down on every inch of your skin, which felt almost immobile in the tank of purple substance you had finally concluded as awaking it. Bubbles swirled past your face, heart coming to speed as your body came to think it was drowning only for the unnatural push and pull of air from the respirator attached to your mouth and nose to stifle the sudden fear. A plastic ring tied was harshly down on one of your fingers, the wire it ran extending down to the bottom of the large, cylindrical tank and running to the flashing computer terminal which stood in the pristine, metallic room visible as a series of white, gray and blue blurs beyond the transparent sheen of the tank's limits. Even with your hazy vision, not a soul was to be seen. Instinctively, you tried to move, only to find the consistency of the liquid you found yourself floating in to stiffen in consistency, keeping you still. The computer outside loosed another desperate flash letting a loud and dull periodic beeping fall onto your ears. Something was happening.
The liquid shifted, and suddenly your senses were drowned in a roaring downpour of noise and sensation as the liquid inside began to drain like a tidal wave, disappearing into the ports which broke open at the tank's bottom before you could so much as blink. After but a moment, you found yourself on the sticky, purple-tinted floor of the tank, a loud series of clicks and clacks warning you to the sudden downpour of lukewarm water which surged down from the tank's top, washing away the rest of the violet liquid only for the sonorous breaths of a heating unit to kick in, drying you thoroughly under a sudden and hot wind of air. Things suddenly came to fruition as the tank's plastic face suddenly hissed open, revealing your unarmed and unarmored form to the air of the cold room outside as the respirator suddenly detached of its own accord to hang from the ceiling, leaving you gasping for air. You looked down: the distinct black emblem of the ISIS Institute printed plainly on the close-fitting black-and-white one piece, swimsuit-like apparel you wore. A series of numbers were printed across the side: LS-P02. The room fell silent from the mechanical chorus of the tank, then, which as your senses returned you quickly identified as a YR-113 tank. The substance YR-113 was like a liquid gelatin, able to heal most wounds when they were layered in it.
But such tanks were only used when a soldier would likely not survive their injuries...
The strange room outside was still empty, the number of computer terminals which lay on desks built into the floor around the square room having fallen silent while X-ray sheets and medical papers lay pinned to the wall and the sleek, almost alien medical equipment around the room -- including two empty YR-113 tanks to your left and right -- remained inanimate. The keypad next the door at the far end of the room glowed red with denial: locked? The soft ceiling lights flickered. When you were ready, you would step out, finding the room only cold although a dry white blanket folded on a cart -- along with medical tools -- lay conveniently nearby. Stepping past a dully-glowing computer, you glimpsed the date on the inactive screen: June 14th, 2026. A precise five months after you last remembered standing, at least awake, on Strafe Island. The hulking aliens in their silver armor came back to mind.
A small black computer on a desk an aisle over pulsed loudly, demanding your attention as it flashed. The unnaturally-human and soft female voice of a machine rung out from the speaker:
"MINA-15 Automated Medical System activating. I possess one manually-created recording by Senior Dr. Gralmich to be viewed by Patient LS-P02 at their own discretion. Say 'Play File' to view contents."
MINA, as you knew, was one of a line of medical AI's built by the ISIS Institute designed to assist doctors and run computer-controlled medical laboratories like this one clearly was.
"I have been instructed to warn you not to make any hasty bodily movements. Please take a seat if possible." added MINA. Your body did feel rather sore and unsteady, but you knew you'd bounce back. On a nearby launcher, a small, disc-shaped white and red drone flickered to life, taking to the air with its colorful camera lens panning about. It pulsated a gentle noise as it suddenly took sight of you, hovering over to dispatch one of it small, wiry arms to scan you with some sort of medical light as it studied for any maladies.
What was going on?
It must have been hollow bubbling of liquid in your ear that roused you from your coma, the next instinct to breathe stopped by the shoddy, artificial taste of plastic in your mouth. You flit open your eyes, which were immediately lost in the ocean of swirling purple through which dull silhouettes pierced the color's limits. Cold numbness pressed down on every inch of your skin, which felt almost immobile in the tank of purple substance you had finally concluded as awaking it. Bubbles swirled past your face, heart coming to speed as your body came to think it was drowning only for the unnatural push and pull of air from the respirator attached to your mouth and nose to stifle the sudden fear. A plastic ring tied was harshly down on one of your fingers, the wire it ran extending down to the bottom of the large, cylindrical tank and running to the flashing computer terminal which stood in the pristine, metallic room visible as a series of white, gray and blue blurs beyond the transparent sheen of the tank's limits. Even with your hazy vision, not a soul was to be seen. Instinctively, you tried to move, only to find the consistency of the liquid you found yourself floating in to stiffen in consistency, keeping you still. The computer outside loosed another desperate flash letting a loud and dull periodic beeping fall onto your ears. Something was happening.
The liquid shifted, and suddenly your senses were drowned in a roaring downpour of noise and sensation as the liquid inside began to drain like a tidal wave, disappearing into the ports which broke open at the tank's bottom before you could so much as blink. After but a moment, you found yourself on the sticky, purple-tinted floor of the tank, a loud series of clicks and clacks warning you to the sudden downpour of lukewarm water which surged down from the tank's top, washing away the rest of the violet liquid only for the sonorous breaths of a heating unit to kick in, drying you thoroughly under a sudden and hot wind of air. Things suddenly came to fruition as the tank's plastic face suddenly hissed open, revealing your unarmed and unarmored form to the air of the cold room outside as the respirator suddenly detached of its own accord to hang from the ceiling, leaving you gasping for air. You looked down: the distinct black emblem of the ISIS Institute printed plainly on the close-fitting black-and-white one piece, swimsuit-like apparel you wore. A series of numbers were printed across the side: LS-P02. The room fell silent from the mechanical chorus of the tank, then, which as your senses returned you quickly identified as a YR-113 tank. The substance YR-113 was like a liquid gelatin, able to heal most wounds when they were layered in it.
But such tanks were only used when a soldier would likely not survive their injuries...
The strange room outside was still empty, the number of computer terminals which lay on desks built into the floor around the square room having fallen silent while X-ray sheets and medical papers lay pinned to the wall and the sleek, almost alien medical equipment around the room -- including two empty YR-113 tanks to your left and right -- remained inanimate. The keypad next the door at the far end of the room glowed red with denial: locked? The soft ceiling lights flickered. When you were ready, you would step out, finding the room only cold although a dry white blanket folded on a cart -- along with medical tools -- lay conveniently nearby. Stepping past a dully-glowing computer, you glimpsed the date on the inactive screen: June 14th, 2026. A precise five months after you last remembered standing, at least awake, on Strafe Island. The hulking aliens in their silver armor came back to mind.
A small black computer on a desk an aisle over pulsed loudly, demanding your attention as it flashed. The unnaturally-human and soft female voice of a machine rung out from the speaker:
"MINA-15 Automated Medical System activating. I possess one manually-created recording by Senior Dr. Gralmich to be viewed by Patient LS-P02 at their own discretion. Say 'Play File' to view contents."
MINA, as you knew, was one of a line of medical AI's built by the ISIS Institute designed to assist doctors and run computer-controlled medical laboratories like this one clearly was.
"I have been instructed to warn you not to make any hasty bodily movements. Please take a seat if possible." added MINA. Your body did feel rather sore and unsteady, but you knew you'd bounce back. On a nearby launcher, a small, disc-shaped white and red drone flickered to life, taking to the air with its colorful camera lens panning about. It pulsated a gentle noise as it suddenly took sight of you, hovering over to dispatch one of it small, wiry arms to scan you with some sort of medical light as it studied for any maladies.
What was going on?
Wilhelmina - Sector X Morgue
Spoiler (click to show/hide):
You dreaded the sudden feeling of a heartbeat beneath your eyes as they flickered open to an ocean of solid black. Your body raked with the smoldering pain of a gunshot -- a stab wound, a burn, something, anything -- but you knew as you took a cold and hollow breath that you had opened your mind again not to the ethereal realm of death, but one of the many prisons the world of life held. You pushed the feeling of a plastic sheet from your face before all else, your arm feeling cold and clammy despite the sore pain blasting through it as it rubbed against your body, which just from a feeling in the darkness you knew was undressed. Your cold breath huffed back down on your face when you looked up, your bodily instinct sensing the cold presence of oppressive metal walls all around your body, which lay on some kind of stiff and uncomfortable bed. Thoughts of a prison flashed to your mind, but the thin -- almost non-existent -- square perimeter of light visible past your pale and numb legs suggested another fate for you. It should have been death, but it was not. The gray square of light surged yellow as a sonorous beep rung outside whatever metal coffin this was, and the square surged open to a flashing hurricane of... light. Light streamed down on your body, illuminating your pale and scar-addled skin as the stiff bed beneath you buzzed, sliding automatically down out into the light.
Immediately, you sought a breath and the undeniable feeling of a beating heart and pumping lugs in your chest declared one bitter truth: that you still lived.
The yellow light on the ceiling ceased to flash, replacing the confusing frenzy with the blue-black darkness of a plain room: cold and lonely, walls lined corner to corner with square metal doors marked with name after name. Above the ISIS Institute emblem faintly visible on the door across the way, a word was printed in severe capital lettering: "MORGUE".
After however much time, you might stumble on to your feet, tossing away the plastic blanket that had so crudely tried to cover your unclothed body before. You looked down: no injuries to be seen. It was almost unblemished. Even the scars you'd previously seen seemed to be shifting away with every step you took onto the cold white tiles beneath. The row of three desks in the center of the low-ceiling room lay barren, save for white underwear, shirt and leggings indicative of a hospital patient that lay folded on one. You heard a clicking and looked down. A black band was laced around your right ankle, on it scrawled text faintly visible under the blue-white ceiling lights barely illuminating the room:
EVERLASTE, WILHELMINA
SEX: FEMALE
AGE: 18 YEARS
DOB: UNKNOWN
DOD: JANUARY 11TH, 4:09 PM, 2026
COD: GSW TO HEART
Dead.
You looked to the door (clearly unlocked as the keypad next it glowed an affirmative green) under which a faint bristle of white light came. What horrors lay beyond the deadest room in the ISIS Insitute?
And what was going on, of all things?
You dreaded the sudden feeling of a heartbeat beneath your eyes as they flickered open to an ocean of solid black. Your body raked with the smoldering pain of a gunshot -- a stab wound, a burn, something, anything -- but you knew as you took a cold and hollow breath that you had opened your mind again not to the ethereal realm of death, but one of the many prisons the world of life held. You pushed the feeling of a plastic sheet from your face before all else, your arm feeling cold and clammy despite the sore pain blasting through it as it rubbed against your body, which just from a feeling in the darkness you knew was undressed. Your cold breath huffed back down on your face when you looked up, your bodily instinct sensing the cold presence of oppressive metal walls all around your body, which lay on some kind of stiff and uncomfortable bed. Thoughts of a prison flashed to your mind, but the thin -- almost non-existent -- square perimeter of light visible past your pale and numb legs suggested another fate for you. It should have been death, but it was not. The gray square of light surged yellow as a sonorous beep rung outside whatever metal coffin this was, and the square surged open to a flashing hurricane of... light. Light streamed down on your body, illuminating your pale and scar-addled skin as the stiff bed beneath you buzzed, sliding automatically down out into the light.
Immediately, you sought a breath and the undeniable feeling of a beating heart and pumping lugs in your chest declared one bitter truth: that you still lived.
The yellow light on the ceiling ceased to flash, replacing the confusing frenzy with the blue-black darkness of a plain room: cold and lonely, walls lined corner to corner with square metal doors marked with name after name. Above the ISIS Institute emblem faintly visible on the door across the way, a word was printed in severe capital lettering: "MORGUE".
After however much time, you might stumble on to your feet, tossing away the plastic blanket that had so crudely tried to cover your unclothed body before. You looked down: no injuries to be seen. It was almost unblemished. Even the scars you'd previously seen seemed to be shifting away with every step you took onto the cold white tiles beneath. The row of three desks in the center of the low-ceiling room lay barren, save for white underwear, shirt and leggings indicative of a hospital patient that lay folded on one. You heard a clicking and looked down. A black band was laced around your right ankle, on it scrawled text faintly visible under the blue-white ceiling lights barely illuminating the room:
EVERLASTE, WILHELMINA
SEX: FEMALE
AGE: 18 YEARS
DOB: UNKNOWN
DOD: JANUARY 11TH, 4:09 PM, 2026
COD: GSW TO HEART
Dead.
You looked to the door (clearly unlocked as the keypad next it glowed an affirmative green) under which a faint bristle of white light came. What horrors lay beyond the deadest room in the ISIS Insitute?
And what was going on, of all things?
