midnight - union-3.

[Merlinsclaw]

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Crusty eyes peeled open at the mechanical ringing of the garrison's alarm.
His lips dry, he smacked them around, as his throat opened.
No sound came out. Only a hoarse, guttural cry.
Sick. Again.

The state trooper, turned soldier, couldn't find the willpower to pull himself from his covers.
The lands outside of his hard, metal bed were cold and rainy. His measly covers were warmer than out there, he reasoned.
The alarm continued to ring. Bzt. Bzt. Bzt.
The Gachetite's eyes darted around. Distant rustling, warriors preparing for their duty in the early morning hours.
The former night, the Extinctionist had barely slept. His eyes lingered on a pale brick for hours. He spilled his guts to the brick, hoping it would kill him.
Unfortunately, he was alive. Not beaten to death by the garrison in reprisal nor taken by some otherworldly Xenian flu.

His thoughts shifted. His eyes came to the window. A bird from his childhood chirped outside.
Memories flushed through his head. A broken childhood. A girl, by the river. An invasion by some unseen Empire.
The memories of one Walther Fiebes.
UNION-3 let out an animalistic snivel. He loathed his consciousness for even bringing such thoughts to the surface.
He relished the moments before sleep as he could feel himself fading into non-existence. He barely dreamed, afterall.
The Extinctionist rolled onto his side, nearly getting off on the very thought of closing his eyes.
Suddenly...

A noise. A human approached. A chant. A whisper. A command!
The covers were suddenly, without warning, yanked from the bed.
Crisp, freezing air jolted across his body. He whimpered.
More garbled, vo-coded words were barked towards UNION-3.
His mind screamed in revolt, his body, or rather his feet, disobeyed.
They slung over onto the frigid concrete floor.
His shift had begun.

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// Credit to @Numbers for the picture //
// More to come soon //

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[Verräterpackaging]

Getting out of bed is the hardest part

 

[maxi]

// Credit to @Numbers for the picture //

are you okay @Numbers

 

[Deleted member 906]

You hold a tagline of legendary status. Do not squander it.

 

[Hunk]

are you okay @Numbers

its a portray

 

[Merlinsclaw]

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Engulfed by pitch-blackness - a byproduct of the siege - a lone Gachetite lingered on a street corner.
Heavy, labored breathing - the byproduct of a throat constrained by a mask - was the only noise in otherwise dead silence.
The Extinctionist's glowing red mask - and the beady, bloodshot eyes underneath it - were glued towards a nearby window.
The weak light of a windup flashlight - held in a greasy, disgusting, dirty hand of a refugee - cracked between the curtains.
They were looking at him. He knew it. They knew that he knew.
...
The siege had made living conditions within the City - especially its outskirts - horrific.
Daylight was full of sirens, announcements, gunshots, and bombings.
The night was different...
The fighting would cool down. The distinct lack of power eliminated light and noise pollution. The Milky Way - as expansive as it was - was visible.

Yet in the mind of UNION-3, as he stood glaring up towards the faint light, there was a problem.
For months, refugees fleeing the East or begging for relocation coupons to the West were crammed into revolting conditions in the City.
The Gachetite knew the ape-men wouldn't find any rest in their cramped, filthy dorms.
No. They wouldn't find solace in the West nor elsewhere. Their escape merely delayed the inevitable. Fleeing. Always fleeing.
He knew of their struggle - the struggle of life.
He had lived in such squalors - trap houses and homelessness. He had been beat like a dog by his father. He knew starvation, dehydration, and war.
He knew there was only one way to end suffering.
...
Footsteps beat against broken asphalt in the distance.
Shrouded in cloak and dagger, three sets of glowing red eyes approached.
UNION-3 turned from his post, holding up a hand as a non-verbal greeting towards his fraternity brothers of Dr. Paul Gachet.
Fingers were pointed. Hands thrown up. Bags opened. Each action a well-practiced routine - a silent dance in the night.


One of the cultists - a youthful release from a Combine Camp turned Civil Protection - unzipped a bag and withdrew a biolock with gloved hands.
The nineteen year old cop skittered forward towards the refugee housing door, clamped the door with the lock, and slipped inside - the martyr.
UNION-3, alongside the other two Extinctionists, then peeled their own bags open to withdraw incendiary grenades from the Garrison.

...

The Gachetite picked up the newspaper in the Garrison the next morning.

The Terminal: "200+ REFUGEES FLEEING INSURGENT OFFENSIVE AND 1 CIVIL PROTECTION OFFICER KILLED IN LAMBDAN ATTACK ON R.B"

Refugee Duty. That's what he'd tell them.

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