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The Project Gutenberg eBook of VISCERATOR, by Nexus Scythiana Minor
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Title: VISCERATOR
Author: Nexus Scythiana Minor
Release Date: Unknown [EBook #78452]
Language: English
Original Publication: Coagulate: Internal Journal of the .:.Order of the Bleeding Clamp.:. , Vol. 2 , Issue No. 1
Credits: Kyril Johannsen (scanning; recovery)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISCERATOR ***
Title: VISCERATOR
Author: Nexus Scythiana Minor
Release Date: Unknown [EBook #78452]
Language: English
Original Publication: Coagulate: Internal Journal of the .:.Order of the Bleeding Clamp.:. , Vol. 2 , Issue No. 1
Credits: Kyril Johannsen (scanning; recovery)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISCERATOR ***
VISCERATOR
Chapter 1.
Run. Boots thumped the ground, sticks snapped, brushes tore. Run. Muffled vocoders strategized behind blinding lights. Run. The cold of the air pierced Kurt harder the quicker he ran. Run. They were gaining behind him, the forest opened into a clearing. Run.
Kurt broke through the last of the bushes, tearing his suit, drawing blood. His head jolted left and right, peering through shattered glasses. The vocoders behind him grew clearer, the bootstomps louder, the pace quicker. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a monolithic structure made itself known to him. With little in the way of cover, it seemed venturing forth was his only option. In a split-second decision, Kurt bolted towards the building.
The details of the structure grew more recognizable as Kurt sallied forwards, some hollowed-out slab of concrete cobbled together with barbed wire and low-cost materials. The closer Kurt got, the more it looked like a Soviet-era gulag. He ran, stray bullets from MCP-issued pistols burying themselves in the dirt not far from him, his anxiety and adrenaline spiking with each shot from behind. As he crossed through the arch separating the prison from the outside world, his heart sunk. Buried deep into the concrete, though stuck out like a sore thumb, was a material not nearly as cheap as the rest, something he recognized from his years as a senator of the Civil Authority.
Searchlights illuminated the prison at once. A harrowing, screeching alarm bellowed from deep inside the building. He’d walked right into a hornet’s nest.
Chapter 2.
It had been three weeks since Kurt found himself here. It began with straying off the trail of a caravan of ex-cops and ex-politicians, meandering elsewhere to relieve himself. It ended with being chased through the hinterlands of Ukraine, stumbling into what they called ‘The Nerve Center.’ The prison-complex betrayed its brutality, the tradition kept alive by the Combine and her unlikely successors.
Kurt himself had lost track of time completely. For much of his time he was kept alone in a dark and damp room with an indescribably biological smell. Once a day, according to stipulations forwarded by the fortress’s commander, a contingent of officers would enter the room and beat Kurt in the darkness. Once a week, the lights would come on, and a representative of Ministry of Information and Discipline would subject Kurt to processes inhumane. Each week grew increasingly horrific in scope. This last week, a modified human, colloquially known as a ‘stalker,’ was brought in, let to roam in the already claustrophobic room.
Kurt, upon internment, had been injected with a plethora of homebrewed concoctions, made with the express purpose of altering his perception of the world, hallucinogenics as one would call them. The methods for making such drugs were made available to the CMB after the Seven Hour War, information sourced from the fallen U.S government, from their ‘Project MKUltra.’ Usually, experiments such as those were conducted on children, and while children were sometimes available to the Nerve Center, the brunt of their experiments were carried out on adults. Thus, a specific alteration of MKUltra was formulated by The Commander himself, one that would not only streamline the process but make itself universal to all stratums of humanity. Years of collected documents from the experiments conducted at the Nerve Center prior to the execution of the Contingency supplemented and at some times transgressed those studies made under MKUltra.
Kurt’s psychological restructuring was complete sooner than most candidates, owing to his soft interior (and exterior) from years of bureaucratic endeavors and no-loss political maneuverings within the Civil Authority Board. All the useless motions passed, the token pensions, the political jargon he spewed, humanist rhetoric, decrying of Ravoux, would not have been enough to warrant the brutal search for his person issued by The Commander if not for his senseless post-Citadel scheming, which saw the peaceful transfer of governance to Lambda and the betrayal of the local Civil Protection, exported to tribunals along with thousands of internal documents describing their procedure for years.
Nonetheless, Kurt was quite quickly turned into a shell of his former self. This was not the end of it.
Chapter 3.
The Commandant turned the halls, flanked by a coterie of Pretorii handpicked from the best of The Protectorate and her inoculation teams. His public appearances had become increasingly rare as administrative tasks piled his desk, demanding his attention to transcontinental affairs of strategic importance.
The organization’s tentacles had long ago spread into other crevices of the world, the proverbial Octopus centered here in Eastern Europe. Half of the cities across the world demanded logistic attention, owing to their infiltration by The Commander’s loyalists. Good members of the Civil Authority were always in earshot despite their distance, Kurt was not, and hence his demise.
Their site evoked fear and awe as the contingent marched through The Nerve Center, something The Commander took careful care to cultivate. Even when one was of the organization, they were not to feel safe in the slightest. The perpetual disquiet, the clamoring of stalkers, the stench, the imposing architecture, all were perfectly synced like a symphony of terror that scared the orchestra and players alike, save for the conductor.
And this conductor, nearing the end of his journey, focused on one cell, that of solitary confinement, tucked into the dampest, most pungent, and loudest area of the complex. Behind the door lay Kurt, strapped to a cold, steel table, soaked in his own filth, pressed between that table and a well-secured headcrab zombie.
In a week’s time, The Commander would return. By then, the Ministry of Information and Discipline will have begun a new and promising program, one that had failed previously but had finally, with the correct purging of departmental heads and ministry shakeups, shown a success. Kurt would be the first adult and the first male to undergo a trauma-induced programming, one that would turn him into an assassin-of-sorts. Then, shortly after, he would be released into the wild. Thenceforth, he would travel, as commanded by his programming, to a certain rendezvous point. He would be given a certain set of tools and sent to the makeshift capital of a local cell of Lambda and then he would be made to kill its leader. A simple, most certainly mundane task, yet one with far-reaching repercussions if successful.
And successful it would be.
Run. Boots thumped the ground, sticks snapped, brushes tore. Run. Muffled vocoders strategized behind blinding lights. Run. The cold of the air pierced Kurt harder the quicker he ran. Run. They were gaining behind him, the forest opened into a clearing. Run.
Kurt broke through the last of the bushes, tearing his suit, drawing blood. His head jolted left and right, peering through shattered glasses. The vocoders behind him grew clearer, the bootstomps louder, the pace quicker. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, a monolithic structure made itself known to him. With little in the way of cover, it seemed venturing forth was his only option. In a split-second decision, Kurt bolted towards the building.
The details of the structure grew more recognizable as Kurt sallied forwards, some hollowed-out slab of concrete cobbled together with barbed wire and low-cost materials. The closer Kurt got, the more it looked like a Soviet-era gulag. He ran, stray bullets from MCP-issued pistols burying themselves in the dirt not far from him, his anxiety and adrenaline spiking with each shot from behind. As he crossed through the arch separating the prison from the outside world, his heart sunk. Buried deep into the concrete, though stuck out like a sore thumb, was a material not nearly as cheap as the rest, something he recognized from his years as a senator of the Civil Authority.
Searchlights illuminated the prison at once. A harrowing, screeching alarm bellowed from deep inside the building. He’d walked right into a hornet’s nest.
Chapter 2.
It had been three weeks since Kurt found himself here. It began with straying off the trail of a caravan of ex-cops and ex-politicians, meandering elsewhere to relieve himself. It ended with being chased through the hinterlands of Ukraine, stumbling into what they called ‘The Nerve Center.’ The prison-complex betrayed its brutality, the tradition kept alive by the Combine and her unlikely successors.
Kurt himself had lost track of time completely. For much of his time he was kept alone in a dark and damp room with an indescribably biological smell. Once a day, according to stipulations forwarded by the fortress’s commander, a contingent of officers would enter the room and beat Kurt in the darkness. Once a week, the lights would come on, and a representative of Ministry of Information and Discipline would subject Kurt to processes inhumane. Each week grew increasingly horrific in scope. This last week, a modified human, colloquially known as a ‘stalker,’ was brought in, let to roam in the already claustrophobic room.
Kurt, upon internment, had been injected with a plethora of homebrewed concoctions, made with the express purpose of altering his perception of the world, hallucinogenics as one would call them. The methods for making such drugs were made available to the CMB after the Seven Hour War, information sourced from the fallen U.S government, from their ‘Project MKUltra.’ Usually, experiments such as those were conducted on children, and while children were sometimes available to the Nerve Center, the brunt of their experiments were carried out on adults. Thus, a specific alteration of MKUltra was formulated by The Commander himself, one that would not only streamline the process but make itself universal to all stratums of humanity. Years of collected documents from the experiments conducted at the Nerve Center prior to the execution of the Contingency supplemented and at some times transgressed those studies made under MKUltra.
Kurt’s psychological restructuring was complete sooner than most candidates, owing to his soft interior (and exterior) from years of bureaucratic endeavors and no-loss political maneuverings within the Civil Authority Board. All the useless motions passed, the token pensions, the political jargon he spewed, humanist rhetoric, decrying of Ravoux, would not have been enough to warrant the brutal search for his person issued by The Commander if not for his senseless post-Citadel scheming, which saw the peaceful transfer of governance to Lambda and the betrayal of the local Civil Protection, exported to tribunals along with thousands of internal documents describing their procedure for years.
Nonetheless, Kurt was quite quickly turned into a shell of his former self. This was not the end of it.
Chapter 3.
The Commandant turned the halls, flanked by a coterie of Pretorii handpicked from the best of The Protectorate and her inoculation teams. His public appearances had become increasingly rare as administrative tasks piled his desk, demanding his attention to transcontinental affairs of strategic importance.
The organization’s tentacles had long ago spread into other crevices of the world, the proverbial Octopus centered here in Eastern Europe. Half of the cities across the world demanded logistic attention, owing to their infiltration by The Commander’s loyalists. Good members of the Civil Authority were always in earshot despite their distance, Kurt was not, and hence his demise.
Their site evoked fear and awe as the contingent marched through The Nerve Center, something The Commander took careful care to cultivate. Even when one was of the organization, they were not to feel safe in the slightest. The perpetual disquiet, the clamoring of stalkers, the stench, the imposing architecture, all were perfectly synced like a symphony of terror that scared the orchestra and players alike, save for the conductor.
And this conductor, nearing the end of his journey, focused on one cell, that of solitary confinement, tucked into the dampest, most pungent, and loudest area of the complex. Behind the door lay Kurt, strapped to a cold, steel table, soaked in his own filth, pressed between that table and a well-secured headcrab zombie.
In a week’s time, The Commander would return. By then, the Ministry of Information and Discipline will have begun a new and promising program, one that had failed previously but had finally, with the correct purging of departmental heads and ministry shakeups, shown a success. Kurt would be the first adult and the first male to undergo a trauma-induced programming, one that would turn him into an assassin-of-sorts. Then, shortly after, he would be released into the wild. Thenceforth, he would travel, as commanded by his programming, to a certain rendezvous point. He would be given a certain set of tools and sent to the makeshift capital of a local cell of Lambda and then he would be made to kill its leader. A simple, most certainly mundane task, yet one with far-reaching repercussions if successful.
And successful it would be.
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