Erkor
Narrative/Lore Management
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- Jun 15, 2016
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MARCH 7th, 2022
17:32 CITY 107 LOCAL TIME
17:32 CITY 107 LOCAL TIME
“BEAR 98999; BEAR 66891. We’re heading out for a drink at the Iliad. Join up if you want.”
98999 had been spending the last three hours people-watching in Liberation Plaza. In uniform, of course, as the act you’d describe as “people-watching” was, officially, enforcing stability in control section one. That would be, of course, the way to say it in protocol. The sound of broken radio protocol grated at his ears like a cheese grater, inversely. There was an impulse to correct his colleague for being so laid-back, but it was nothing that a pair of hidden eyes shutting and a vocoded breath out couldn’t fix. Soon enough, he gave a response – one more suitable for a Civil Protection officer.
“BEAR 66891; BEAR 98999. Going 10-7. Control section one is at code 100. Over.”
“Oh, come on! Can it with the protoc--” 66891’s voice cut out as he cut the radio. He made his way not up the stairs into the civil protection nexus, but instead to the right – up another flight of stairs, where a walk down an alley by the ration intake building would lead to a locked door on a reinforced house with blacked out windows. A wave of his hand over the cold blue light emanating from the gene-coded lock bolted to the doorframe let him push it open to enter. A double-entrance was necessary – just in case some wiseass had the idea to hijack or spoof a proper gene-code ID. The door swung shut behind him and the lock re-engaged, driving two thick metal bolts through a pair of holes to keep it firmly secured. Inside this quasi-airlock (although you could probably call it a person-lock) was another door, although that one’s lock was remotely controlled by a simple card reader. The card in question was clandestinely carried by every odd cop somewhere on their person: A CID card. Of course, no sane officer would even think about saying their real Citizen ID out loud. Some would even get issued fake cards for the sole purpose of pretending to be an ordinary person if they believed they were in really hot water. 98999 slid his card across the reader. A few moments passed to validate the magnetic strip. A few batches of biometric data flashed across the screen, followed by a name: Yossi Cohen. A picture of a mildly perturbed semitic man hung there next to the name. A few seconds later, it all lit up in green. The door unlocked. Yossi put his card away and stepped into the Iliad proper.
Today’s theme: The Roaring Twenties. Ironic. Jazz played from the speakers, emulating the sound of gramaphones, replete with the occasional crackle in audio. As the second door shut behind him and re-locked itself, he took a look around. A few cops were present, de-masked, drinking or smoking or eating some slightly-better-than-average meal. It wasn’t bad, by any means – not that Yossi would know. He’s never eaten here, but people said that the food was filling and better than takeout or rations. Under his feet were hollow, acoustic floorboards. His hard-soled jackboots made plenty of noise as he made a beeline to the bathroom, and into a toilet stall. Only there did he take off his mask, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. As he clipped the mask back on, he let out an audio-vocoded breath. Being in a place like this was an increasingly rare luxury he had, being one of the more dilligent members of the force. More often than not, he was the odd one out among his colleagues because he worked as much as he did. The only times he did take a break were when he was alone. He pulled the stall door open and stepped outside, gazing into his own black eyes in the mirror. To a degree, it was as if the mask wasn’t even there anymore. It’d feel like that sometimes, as if all that remained was the cop exterior.
The door to the restrooms swung open. 98999 stepped out. In the same moment, he looked across the bar to see 66891 and three others enter the Iliad. Much like a conga line, they were the man himself, 66891, maybe 5’9”; 72843, a broad-set woman at 5’7”; 51239, a lanky and slim dude at 6’4”; and 04212, perhaps the most average out of them all (sans Yossi himself): Six feet even. 66891 took his mask off, introducing himself as Wil (with one L).
“This must be the first time I’ve seen you outside the firing range!” Wil let out a slightly obnoxious laugh, guiding Yossi to the bar. The three others followed them, taking their own masks off to lean back and relax. Each of them ordered a drink from the barkeep; a recycled, slightly obese metrocop with a limp called Danil. He knew all their names.
728 ordered a whiskey, old fashioned, and Andrei obliged with a “coming right up, Naddy.” The other two ordered something pretentious-sounding that Yossi didn’t care to listen to. His head was looking away, to the door, quietly yearning to go back outside and away from these hypersocial dregs of society. He could almost envision it: An excuse to leave of any kind. They all had their radios off, he was sure of it – the only reason you’d come here was to keep the work in the person-lock. His hand pushed on the counter; he rose to stand and--
“So, nine-eight – I never caught your name,” Wil said, now slurping on a cocktail of his own. He even deigned to put a hand on the loner-cop, tearing away the last hope of being able to return to the solitude of silence. A part of him wanted to clock Wil in the face and be done with it. Relishing in his veil, he closed his eyes and let out a slow breath that, unfortunately, everyone around him could hear.
“Yossi,” he retorted, tensed up more than a crime-of-passion murderer in the interrogation chair. He could hear Wil scoff ever so slightly. “Yossi?” the unmasked one retorted, tugging at the shoulder to return the oddly-named colleague of his back into a seat. “Where’s that from? Sounds european.” Wil’s faint american city-boy drawl emphasized his ignorance. “And – y’know – you can take the mask off in here. Nobody’s watching.”
Yossi sank back against the counter, using an elbow to keep himself relatively upright (and to feign coolness among his colleagues). “Well,” he started, flustered at how out of his element he seemed, “it’s-- it’s Hebrew.”
“Hebrew?!” Wil exclaimed, apparently interested. “So, wha-- you’re… jewish? Israeli?”
Yossi only nodded in response, curtly but to the point. “It’s… short for Yosef,” he added.
“Yosef,” Wil echoed. “Alright, Yosef: Tell me summ’n about yourself! I swear, I’ve never talked to you off-duty.” Even if he might have been faking earlier, he seemed properly reeled in now, to Yossi’s chagrin.
“Well, uhhh-…” He wanted to remember something about his time before Civil Protection, but his mind drew blanks. He’d undergone more than a few memory replacements at this point. “I… You know, City 107 is my first assignment!” Gracefully saved, he thought to himself, although he could tell Wil wasn’t satisfied.
“Naaaah, c’mooooon. Like, where’re you from? Israel, right? How was it there, before – you know?”
Yossi thought again. He thought so much, in fact, that Wil tried nudging his memory with a slightly impatient ‘huh?’ as it became increasingly apparent that he was just staring into space. “I, uhh-- uhm… Not too bad, I guess.” Somehow, Wil was drawn in by that answer. “There was…” Nothing, really. His voice trailed off as he tried to remember something past the mental blocks. Then, suddenly, it was there: A flash, a scrap of a memory. “Oh!” he exclaimed, trying (and failing) to snap his gloved finger to grab a hold of the resurfaced thought. “Aliens. Lots of aliens, after Black Mesa. I remember having to hide in a basement for about a week while the military fought them.”
Wil’s look went from deep intrigue to a pair of furrowed brows. He wasn’t upset, but concerned – ever so slightly, at least. A smile played on his lips, and soon he let out another almost-contemptible laugh to play that concern off. “Jeez,” he leant forward to give Yossi a pat on the armored back as he took a drink from his Manhattan cocktail, “that memory replacement really does a number on you, don’t it?” Yossi laughed with him – or, at least, faked doing so – to play off the awkward tension. His emotionless mask looked up and around the place. Most of the other patrons of the Iliad were minding their own business, which meant it must not have been as awkward as he thought.
Still, he managed to stand up now. “I… need to use the restroom,” Yossi said in a slightly-too-formal manner before heading inside. Just before he broached the swivelling door into the toilets, he took a good look around. Nobody seemed like they had to join him in there now. He turned the corner around the dividing wall and headed for the sinks at the end of the tiled hall. Finally, he took his mask off, the vocoded breaths snapping to muffled and then unmodulated huffs. He took his gloves off, feeling his forehead and cheeks. He was feverish and flustered. He took a glance at the mirror, gazing into his own black eyes. They lingered the for a moment, while his hand found its way to the faucet to let the water flow. He splashed some water on his face in a desperate attempt to cool himself down. He tore some disposable paper towels from the dispenser to rub his face dry before he looked back up at the--
The door to the restroom swung open, and as his eyes met his reflection’s, Wil rounded the corner. He stopped immediately, paralyzed at what he saw. Black eyes looked back at him. The humanoid thing at the other end of the restroom hall had skin white like pearls. He stared at it for what felt like an eternity.
Yossi could see his right hand shaking. Wil still had his pistol. Yossi did, too.
Wil was paralyzed in fear. Yossi was, too.
98999 had been spending the last three hours people-watching in Liberation Plaza. In uniform, of course, as the act you’d describe as “people-watching” was, officially, enforcing stability in control section one. That would be, of course, the way to say it in protocol. The sound of broken radio protocol grated at his ears like a cheese grater, inversely. There was an impulse to correct his colleague for being so laid-back, but it was nothing that a pair of hidden eyes shutting and a vocoded breath out couldn’t fix. Soon enough, he gave a response – one more suitable for a Civil Protection officer.
“BEAR 66891; BEAR 98999. Going 10-7. Control section one is at code 100. Over.”
“Oh, come on! Can it with the protoc--” 66891’s voice cut out as he cut the radio. He made his way not up the stairs into the civil protection nexus, but instead to the right – up another flight of stairs, where a walk down an alley by the ration intake building would lead to a locked door on a reinforced house with blacked out windows. A wave of his hand over the cold blue light emanating from the gene-coded lock bolted to the doorframe let him push it open to enter. A double-entrance was necessary – just in case some wiseass had the idea to hijack or spoof a proper gene-code ID. The door swung shut behind him and the lock re-engaged, driving two thick metal bolts through a pair of holes to keep it firmly secured. Inside this quasi-airlock (although you could probably call it a person-lock) was another door, although that one’s lock was remotely controlled by a simple card reader. The card in question was clandestinely carried by every odd cop somewhere on their person: A CID card. Of course, no sane officer would even think about saying their real Citizen ID out loud. Some would even get issued fake cards for the sole purpose of pretending to be an ordinary person if they believed they were in really hot water. 98999 slid his card across the reader. A few moments passed to validate the magnetic strip. A few batches of biometric data flashed across the screen, followed by a name: Yossi Cohen. A picture of a mildly perturbed semitic man hung there next to the name. A few seconds later, it all lit up in green. The door unlocked. Yossi put his card away and stepped into the Iliad proper.
Today’s theme: The Roaring Twenties. Ironic. Jazz played from the speakers, emulating the sound of gramaphones, replete with the occasional crackle in audio. As the second door shut behind him and re-locked itself, he took a look around. A few cops were present, de-masked, drinking or smoking or eating some slightly-better-than-average meal. It wasn’t bad, by any means – not that Yossi would know. He’s never eaten here, but people said that the food was filling and better than takeout or rations. Under his feet were hollow, acoustic floorboards. His hard-soled jackboots made plenty of noise as he made a beeline to the bathroom, and into a toilet stall. Only there did he take off his mask, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. As he clipped the mask back on, he let out an audio-vocoded breath. Being in a place like this was an increasingly rare luxury he had, being one of the more dilligent members of the force. More often than not, he was the odd one out among his colleagues because he worked as much as he did. The only times he did take a break were when he was alone. He pulled the stall door open and stepped outside, gazing into his own black eyes in the mirror. To a degree, it was as if the mask wasn’t even there anymore. It’d feel like that sometimes, as if all that remained was the cop exterior.
The door to the restrooms swung open. 98999 stepped out. In the same moment, he looked across the bar to see 66891 and three others enter the Iliad. Much like a conga line, they were the man himself, 66891, maybe 5’9”; 72843, a broad-set woman at 5’7”; 51239, a lanky and slim dude at 6’4”; and 04212, perhaps the most average out of them all (sans Yossi himself): Six feet even. 66891 took his mask off, introducing himself as Wil (with one L).
“This must be the first time I’ve seen you outside the firing range!” Wil let out a slightly obnoxious laugh, guiding Yossi to the bar. The three others followed them, taking their own masks off to lean back and relax. Each of them ordered a drink from the barkeep; a recycled, slightly obese metrocop with a limp called Danil. He knew all their names.
728 ordered a whiskey, old fashioned, and Andrei obliged with a “coming right up, Naddy.” The other two ordered something pretentious-sounding that Yossi didn’t care to listen to. His head was looking away, to the door, quietly yearning to go back outside and away from these hypersocial dregs of society. He could almost envision it: An excuse to leave of any kind. They all had their radios off, he was sure of it – the only reason you’d come here was to keep the work in the person-lock. His hand pushed on the counter; he rose to stand and--
“So, nine-eight – I never caught your name,” Wil said, now slurping on a cocktail of his own. He even deigned to put a hand on the loner-cop, tearing away the last hope of being able to return to the solitude of silence. A part of him wanted to clock Wil in the face and be done with it. Relishing in his veil, he closed his eyes and let out a slow breath that, unfortunately, everyone around him could hear.
“Yossi,” he retorted, tensed up more than a crime-of-passion murderer in the interrogation chair. He could hear Wil scoff ever so slightly. “Yossi?” the unmasked one retorted, tugging at the shoulder to return the oddly-named colleague of his back into a seat. “Where’s that from? Sounds european.” Wil’s faint american city-boy drawl emphasized his ignorance. “And – y’know – you can take the mask off in here. Nobody’s watching.”
Yossi sank back against the counter, using an elbow to keep himself relatively upright (and to feign coolness among his colleagues). “Well,” he started, flustered at how out of his element he seemed, “it’s-- it’s Hebrew.”
“Hebrew?!” Wil exclaimed, apparently interested. “So, wha-- you’re… jewish? Israeli?”
Yossi only nodded in response, curtly but to the point. “It’s… short for Yosef,” he added.
“Yosef,” Wil echoed. “Alright, Yosef: Tell me summ’n about yourself! I swear, I’ve never talked to you off-duty.” Even if he might have been faking earlier, he seemed properly reeled in now, to Yossi’s chagrin.
“Well, uhhh-…” He wanted to remember something about his time before Civil Protection, but his mind drew blanks. He’d undergone more than a few memory replacements at this point. “I… You know, City 107 is my first assignment!” Gracefully saved, he thought to himself, although he could tell Wil wasn’t satisfied.
“Naaaah, c’mooooon. Like, where’re you from? Israel, right? How was it there, before – you know?”
Yossi thought again. He thought so much, in fact, that Wil tried nudging his memory with a slightly impatient ‘huh?’ as it became increasingly apparent that he was just staring into space. “I, uhh-- uhm… Not too bad, I guess.” Somehow, Wil was drawn in by that answer. “There was…” Nothing, really. His voice trailed off as he tried to remember something past the mental blocks. Then, suddenly, it was there: A flash, a scrap of a memory. “Oh!” he exclaimed, trying (and failing) to snap his gloved finger to grab a hold of the resurfaced thought. “Aliens. Lots of aliens, after Black Mesa. I remember having to hide in a basement for about a week while the military fought them.”
Wil’s look went from deep intrigue to a pair of furrowed brows. He wasn’t upset, but concerned – ever so slightly, at least. A smile played on his lips, and soon he let out another almost-contemptible laugh to play that concern off. “Jeez,” he leant forward to give Yossi a pat on the armored back as he took a drink from his Manhattan cocktail, “that memory replacement really does a number on you, don’t it?” Yossi laughed with him – or, at least, faked doing so – to play off the awkward tension. His emotionless mask looked up and around the place. Most of the other patrons of the Iliad were minding their own business, which meant it must not have been as awkward as he thought.
Still, he managed to stand up now. “I… need to use the restroom,” Yossi said in a slightly-too-formal manner before heading inside. Just before he broached the swivelling door into the toilets, he took a good look around. Nobody seemed like they had to join him in there now. He turned the corner around the dividing wall and headed for the sinks at the end of the tiled hall. Finally, he took his mask off, the vocoded breaths snapping to muffled and then unmodulated huffs. He took his gloves off, feeling his forehead and cheeks. He was feverish and flustered. He took a glance at the mirror, gazing into his own black eyes. They lingered the for a moment, while his hand found its way to the faucet to let the water flow. He splashed some water on his face in a desperate attempt to cool himself down. He tore some disposable paper towels from the dispenser to rub his face dry before he looked back up at the--
The door to the restroom swung open, and as his eyes met his reflection’s, Wil rounded the corner. He stopped immediately, paralyzed at what he saw. Black eyes looked back at him. The humanoid thing at the other end of the restroom hall had skin white like pearls. He stared at it for what felt like an eternity.
Yossi could see his right hand shaking. Wil still had his pistol. Yossi did, too.
Wil was paralyzed in fear. Yossi was, too.
MARCH 8th, 2022
18:02 CITY 107 LOCAL TIME
18:02 CITY 107 LOCAL TIME
Combine news reels spring to life with a breaking development.
A shooting in the Iliad has forced the establishment to close for the coming weeks. The perpetrator was found to be a rogue infiltrator caught red-handed in preparing for a mass shooting within the bar. One civil protection officer was killed in the line of duty whilst attempting to apprehend the suspect.
Members of OVERWATCH Data Recovery Bureau were witnessed at the scene.
No bodies were removed from the bar.
A shooting in the Iliad has forced the establishment to close for the coming weeks. The perpetrator was found to be a rogue infiltrator caught red-handed in preparing for a mass shooting within the bar. One civil protection officer was killed in the line of duty whilst attempting to apprehend the suspect.
Members of OVERWATCH Data Recovery Bureau were witnessed at the scene.
No bodies were removed from the bar.
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