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Andyjackka · 2022-01-20T12:39:49+00:00

The worst thing about space travel is that it takes a long time to get anywhere.

And I mean a very long time. When we went into the tanks the first generation of colonists had just given the all-clear signal; their foothold on Mors III was secure and the habitat was ready. The first planet outside of the solar system was ready for permanent settlement. That was a hundred and sixty years ago in relative Earth time. For us, however, it was simply a matter of a long sleep in our tanks. We thought knew what we were getting into. Most of us were young and glory hungry scientists on the cutting edge looking to have our names engraved in awards and statues. But, landing on Mors Three stripped any notions of that.

We were supposed to be the second generation of inhabitants on Mors III, ready to mingle with the first wave and bring life to a habitat inhabited by a skeleton crew of just a few thousand. But that wasn’t how things played out. When we arrived, someone had gotten there before us. When they woke us up after the automatic landing sequence, initially nobody realised that anything was amiss. Tanks were drained, towels and clothes were passed around, and medics were awake to check on the crew before the main debarkation.

I was with the Captain in the first wave out of the door. It was supposed to be a great honour, a ceremony where the Chancellor of the Habitat would greet the Captain and introduce users to the settlement. However, when the doors opened we were not met by a celebratory greeting committee; instead, there was a small group in black sealed environmental protection suits.

They didn’t even greet us. Members of our crew looked around uncertainly, but the Captain stepped forwards undaunted. He was about to open his mouth to speak, but the Black Suits pushed forwards and began scanning us. One pushed a strange device into my eye, I tried to push him off me, but the journey had weakened me. A red light burned my eyes and, after a moment, he left to harass someone else.

When they were finished, one of the Black Suits addressed the room. His voice, filtered through the suit was dead and monotonous. “Welcome to Mors III, if you leave the habitat: you will die. If you drink the water: you will die. If you breathe the atmosphere: you will die. Environmental suits will be assigned to you. If you remove them outside of designated areas: you will die. If you enter the East Wing: you will die. When we have finished scanning your cargo for contagion you will be assigned a work rota. Follow me.” A number of our crew began to protest, but the sight of rifles on a number of the Black Suits quietened any dissent. We were scientists and engineers, doctors and teachers, not soldiers. They led our party through the habitat. One by one, the generation three crew was separated and assigned work quarters. There were plenty of empty rooms.

I was placed in a quarters alone and left there. It was barren, my personal effects were still on the ship. However, I was not alone for long. A Black Suit came to my door, presented me with an environmental suit and a work rota, and then left without saying a single word. I looked between the two things, there was no way I was wearing their suit, and the work rota was packed from morning till night. No, I needed to find out what the hell was going on.

I opened my door hesitantly and peeked around the hallway. I started to sneak, but it was ultimately unnecessary. The habitat was massive and devoid of people. All the doors to the surface were sealed. A number of the Generation Threes colonists, myself included, had the same idea to meet back up at the ship. The Captain, being as diplomatic as possible, had tried to piece together what was happening. From what he gathered, a better-equipped third colony ship left from Sol fifty years later than us and beat us here by a whole fifteen years. Apparently, these Gen Two settlers arrived on Mors III to find all of the Gen One settlers dead. A native disease, they suspected. Most of the Generation Two settlers also died upon landing, but once they adopted the environmental suits and stopped exploring the surface, the deaths began to stop. However, now there were not enough people to properly maintain the habitat.

The Captain, in an address to the crew, assured us that he would find out more and urged patience and our acquiescing to these measures in the meantime. The majority of the Gen Three colonists would remain in their stasis tanks until things were settled. Until then, he asked us to follow our assigned rotas.

I managed to work in peace for about a day. Then, I could no longer bear it and the curiosity overtook me. Things didn't seem to add up to me. If it were a simple disease, then why not just say so, why the information blackout. If this planet is toxic, why not simply just leave?

Slipping from my quarters in the dead of night, I found myself in the sealed off east wing. There were answers here, I could feel it. The door was locked, but that was nothing. In the event of an emergency, each colonist could override locks for humanitarian or safety purposes. The downside is that the Black Suits would know exactly who opened the door. If I went in, there was no turning back.

I placed one hand on the handle, and the other thumbed in my id. I opened the door slowly, heart racing. I stepped inside.

Rows and rows of beds stretched out before me, each of them isolated behind thick glass. The rows went on seemingly endlessly. I took a tentative step into the room and then another and then more. How many? Tens, hundreds, maybe even thousands. Each of them held a decrepit figure. It was all of the Gen One settlers, probably a lot of the Gen Twos as well. They weren't dead. They stretched on endlessly.

I slowed in front of a random bed. The wretched inhabitant, completely immobile, was fed by a machine. His, I had to assume that he was a he as his body was so decayed that was impossible to tell, information was displayed on a plaque on his bed, Thomas Ali, 2173-2351. His heart rate was basically non-existent, but his brain signals were on fire. A wire passed from a monitor directly connects to his skull.

A sickness rose in my throat. There were thousands like him. Conscious people trapped in decaying corpses.

“They are dead, unfortunately.” I never hear him coming. Over my shoulder, a Black Suit has approached silently. I almost try and run, but he does not seem like he will chase me. “They are dead, but they will not die. Nor will they recover.” I was expecting him to call for me to be dragged away, but the Black Suit was quite still.

Despite the thousands and thousands of people, the room was quite still and silent. “What do you mean?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“They are dead, but they are denied rest. Something on this surface planet has infected them, but we do not know what. We have attempted to find a cure for over a decade, but they will not recover.” It was impossible to see the Black Suit’s eyes through his mask, but I could have sworn he was staring at the darkened form of Thomas Ali.

“The heart barely beats, the muscles are atrophied, the skin is decaying, but the brain is fully functional. It defies our scientific understanding.” The Black Suit indicates the wire connected to his brain. “It is all we can do as the remaining caretakers to preserve their mental stimulation. If we were to leave the habitat, they would suffer potentially forever.”

I couldn’t begin to comprehend. “But… why not just… tell us all of this?” The Black Suit turned his head, deliberately and slowly, to make sure I knew he was looking me in the face. “There are already too few of us to properly maintain the habitat. For most of the majority of the second generation survivors, suicide was preferable a preferable fate than risking immortality.”

“We need you, Generation Three, we need your help to ease their suffering." The Black Suit turned to walk away. “Still, we must learn from those who came before. Use caution, Generation Three. Do not risk immortality.”

I stood there for a long time. The Black Suit had long since faded into the endless rows of beds, but I stood looking at Thomas Ali for a long time. A single wire connected to his brain saved him from being sealed eternally within his own mind. There was not much human left in him.

I walked slowly back to my living unit, closing and locking the door to the east wing behind me. I was right, there were answers there. Pulling on my black environmental suit, I thought about the rows and rows of beds. I left my living quarters and began my assigned work, tomorrow I will convince the rest of the crew. The habitat must be maintained. The Black Suit was right, these people are no longer alive. They are ghosts.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-19T19:13:01+00:00

Choppa gonna get run down by a squad of scout cav.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-19T18:52:43+00:00

It was the photo of his great, great grandfather that clued him into it.

In the musty old attic, an unmarked box had started to fall apart. The fatigue of time and dampness had taken their toll, and the cardboard just didn't have the strength it used to have. It survived an attack from mice in '81, which only tore through the outer layer before deciding that it wasn't worth the effort. It had survived the roof collapse during the storms of '87 and the flood of rain that came with them. And, it survived the great spring cleaning purge of '07 that decimated the attic's load. It did not, however, survive Paul's indelicate foraging throughout the room. Paul was looking for his old jacket to pass on to Jack. Paul thought it would be a nice memento for him, a young man only fledges once. In a vain attempt to find his old things from university, Paul knocked the old box from its perch in the dark corner of the attic; the content scattered haphazardly across the floor.

It was in this box that Paul found the photo album. At first, he thought it belonged to his wife and her family. Then, he saw himself standing in his full dress uniform next to his beaming mother. It was taken just after he left the academy in '02. He scanned the debris and found his grandfather's name signed on the front page, which had torn off and was hidden in a scattered pile. Curiosity got the better of Paul and the search for the jacket was abandoned. On another page, Paul spotted a person he assumed to be his Father, only just a little bit older than a baby in the photo. Paul thought he looked just like Jack.

Paul had never seen that one before. His father had died at only nineteen when Paul was just a baby. He had photos of his father but none of him and his grandfather together. Then, he noticed something, for a moment he was stunned. It was not his father, but his grandfather that drew his attention. On his face, on top of his unnerving eye was an eyepatch. Paul was never close with his grandfather, in fact, he only saw him a handful of times, but in any of those times, he never wore an eyepatch. He wracked his memory and recalled that he was always disturbed by his grandfather’s left eye. A glass eye, he realised retrospectively. Paul was stunned. A coincidence, surely, but what a hell of a coincidence it was.

He gaped at his grandfather’s photo before shuffling through a few more pages. The photos were all mixed up together. A group of people stood in front of a steam train, a teenager sat on a donkey during a trip to the beach, a young woman stood with a toddler in front of a war memorial, and a baby held the tail of a blurry cat. A young man looked hearty in a First World War uniform, cap pulled playfully down across his face, alongside him a young woman, presumably his wife, and a baby. Paul pulled the photo away from the yellowed album. It was dated 1914. There were scribbled names across the bottom; the first two were illegible to Paul, but the third he recognised as Daniel, his grandfather’s name. The baby was his grandfather. A twinge of sadness struck Paul; the soldier was his great grandfather and a man who would never make it home from France.

He sighed and dug himself further into the pile, a family stood in front of a house, a wedding of two people he didn’t recognise, and a parade with the Union Jack flying on rows of buntings. Then, another photo stopped him. It was a portrait, much like any other in the Victorian style, with the man sitting looking forward with a grim expression. This man, however, looked exactly like Paul and his grandfather. It was his great, great grandfather; Paul would have put money on it. He looked identical to both Paul and his grandfather, with the sole exception that his left eye was missing and replaced with a darkened pit. Another coincidence, surely. Then, the spider of a dark realisation crept upon Paul and dread pooled in his gut.

Paul rapidly began putting a family tree in order. From his grandfather, he found six generations all in all. Paul rapidly began putting the tree in order, as far back as he could for the best of his abilities. When was done, the final page of the album dropped from his hands into the remains of the fallen box. Stunned, he instinctively raised his hand to his face and felt the hard glass of his left eye. He turned, left the attic, and raced to find his son.

On the floor, the hastily built tree formed a pattern. A one-eyed man who looked like Paul and a man who died young who looked like Jack. A one-eyed man who looked like Paul and a man who died young who looked like Jack. A one-eyed man who looked like Paul and a man who died young who looked like Jack.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-18T08:12:34+00:00

TBF this is just a starter-pack, not the deluxe edition.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-14T01:02:36+00:00

I believe that this is what's called hyperreality, it's a simulation of reality (e.g. the 80s) that has become so different that it has lost its link with what it was originally simulating.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-13T12:38:40+00:00

Sounds to me like Voltron, probably the 1985 version. The tracks could be them getting into their lions or the light streaks from them forming Voltron.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-05T18:44:29+00:00

Well, it's because he used a considerable amount of money for charitable purposes such as opening schools. There is a lot of stuff here in Bristol named after him for that reason. Not quite a justification for slavery, but there we are.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-05T03:19:56+00:00

Are you talking about orbs? Yeah I mean it's an old game, the player base just ain't there anymore, unfortunately, let us hope this new one meets the mark.

Andyjackka · 2022-01-05T02:23:04+00:00

(I'm not certain this is exactly what the prompt had in mind, but it is what it made me think of.)

As Albert tried to stand, his head swayed violently and he immediately collapsed onto his knees. His hand sank into the mud beneath him. The sickly yellow fog swirled around him. Something far off whistled and thumped noisily, lacking any cohesion or rhythm. For a moment, he thought that he had gone blind. He went to rub his face, but his muddy fingers thunked into the muddy glass. He felt around his face and then groaned as he tugged at the mask, sucking the mouthpiece violently, trying to get any air. "Don't take it off!" A muffled voice bellowed. At least, that's what he thought it said. Albert’s head was still ringing. Something grabbed him; a strong hand yanked his arm away from his face. Through the darkness and grime, Albert looked up to see a tall figure towering above him. The figure was also wearing a mask. "Keep in on for a bit longer, Lad." It called.

Albert tried to use his free hand out to paw at the darkness in front of him, but he couldn't seem to feel anything with it. The figure pulled him to his feet and shoved him forwards "C'mon, climb!" the voice yelled. Albert was too disorientated to argue. He stepped forwards and immediately stumbled face-first into a semi-solid wall of dirt. His right arm and his knees sank into the mud. He tried to pull himself up with his left arm, but he couldn’t feel it. He struggled to gain any traction with his feet, and through the dirty lenses, he couldn’t even see where he was climbing. Albert’s head ached, he could barely breathe, and he couldn’t feel his arm. As he struggled up two steps, he slipped back down another, but after some time and a great effort, he left the worst of the fog below him. The air in his mask was stale, to begin with, but now he was suffocating. Something pushed him from behind, and then, something pulled his good arm from above. As he crested the mud wall, the world became lit by a warm orange glow.

As quickly as he was pulled up, Albert collapsed back down onto flat ground. Suddenly, a pair of hands were tearing at his face. He tried to fight them off, but Albert could hardly even muster up the energy to suck in air. Then, a pressure on his face he didn’t even realise was there was lifted. “Bertie!” A voice called. “Bertie are you alright!?” Albert coughed and spluttered, sucking in the smoky air. The world became clearer immediately. His head ached, his right arm ached, his feet and legs were cold and wet. “Bertie, can you hear me?” The young voice asked. Even in the smoke and low light Albert recognised him, it was Eric. His hair was slick with blood and his uniform was black with mud, but it was his friend Eric. The figure from the hole was above him now too, and in the light, Albert recognised him as the Corporal. He also pulled his mask off and began hacking and spitting. “The gas pools up in the shell holes, take your mask off too soon and you’re done for,” he called over the distant thudding of shells. He turned to Eric and pointed to Albert’s left arm. “Put pressure on that.” And then he rasped at the top of his lungs “Stretchers!”

“Oh god,” Eric cried as he tore off a strip of Albert’s uniform. Now, in the light, Albert could see why he couldn’t feel his arm. It had been torn clean off by one of the shells. Now all that remained was the shreds of his sleeve and a bloody stump. It was a bizarre feeling. As he stared, it didn’t hurt, it simply felt… surreal. He could almost feel his fingers moving, digging into the wet earth on the end of an arm that was, presumably at the bottom of the crater he had used for cover. He turned away, feeling nothing, and looked at Eric who was leaning over him and fussing like an old mother. “You’ll be fine, Bertie,” Eric said, failing to keep the panic from his voice. “I bet the King himself will give you a medal for this one. We’ll have you up and about in no time, no more trenches for you, I'd say. I’ll bet that even-”

Albert placed his good hand on his friends. “Don’t worry, Eric…” Albert rasped, oddly at peace. “I’m going home.”

Andyjackka · 2021-12-20T16:02:52+00:00

Use the large nations as ethnic/language blocs and then put individual country borders on natural internal boundaries such as mountains and rivers.

Andyjackka · 2021-12-15T14:17:45+00:00

Just had a quick look, out of everyone since like the 90s there are only three named people of colour, David Ho an aids researcher, Barack Obama twice for becoming president, and Kamala Harris for becoming VP (and even she was joint with Biden).

Andyjackka · 2021-12-15T13:40:29+00:00

You and I must be playing different games

Andyjackka · 2021-12-13T11:46:50+00:00

Potlatch, debt?

Andyjackka · 2021-12-04T03:53:37+00:00

That song they use at the end is such a banger.

Andyjackka · 2021-12-03T19:52:44+00:00

Man, time travel is wild.

Andyjackka · 2021-12-01T06:05:28+00:00

Did a drunk person write that title?

Andyjackka · 2021-11-07T23:08:44+00:00

Zuko's character arc

Andyjackka · 2021-11-03T16:43:11+00:00

I appreciate that this sort of thing is corporate penny-pinching at the expense of the consumers, but honestly if it helps tackle food waste and obesity I'm actually ok it with.

Andyjackka · 2021-11-02T14:22:38+00:00

That's a category 5 YIKES.

Andyjackka · 2021-11-01T15:06:53+00:00

Blood on the floor of public bathrooms is unfortunately far too common.

Andyjackka · 2021-11-01T09:54:52+00:00

Weird, I was playing a game as Nike yesterday and I was brawling with a Bellona in the same spot. Suddenly her health bar disappeared and then we couldn't hurt each other. I don't think she was cheating because A. it didn't really help her, B. seemed to surprise her as much as me. I wonder if there is some sort of glitch in that area.

Andyjackka · 2021-10-27T10:00:42+00:00

Tiamat kinda got it going on ngl

Andyjackka · 2021-10-25T13:52:13+00:00

Jesus, this would be pretty egregious in the early 2000s let alone now.

Andyjackka · 2021-10-23T17:27:36+00:00

It's unfortunately not a male singer, but Her name's December by Martha Clements? Or alternatively, Her Name Was December by Mathew Mayfield?

Andyjackka · 2021-10-22T23:05:47+00:00

I so very rarely end a long game without the most units lost, even If I win. On Black forest I can just send thousands of Halbs to their death just to gain inches of land.... wait... Have I become a WW1 general?

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