revo
mad to live
Dallas, Texas, one of the last states still holding out against the surmounting pressure by the United States government to "deal with the spec problem" through state funded and enforced "quarantine camps." The media surrounding the implementation of these camps has sung praises of how these facilities will :afford the E-gens the best medical care" and help them "manage the genetic effects" they are experiencing. The politicians utilized their best speech writers to spin the rhetoric in a way that would make these compounds sound glamorous and attractive. They claim it's the best option to "ensure everyone's safety" in these dark times when food was low and tensions were high... But the Resistance knows better. It's lies. All lies. Each and every fucking word.
Once you sign on to go to one of these camps Marshall Law reigns supreme and you can kiss your blessed freedom goodbye. Everything the government does is for the good of the human race, and no one in power really gives a damn about the freaks that have sprouted up among them. They are panicked. This is a situation where they need to demonstrate how they have everything "under control." But that's the thing about the human race, specs and norms alike. They aren't big fans of being controlled.
The Resistance had been quiet lately, running surveillance and gathering intel for the upcoming mission which had taken months to plan. One of the key members of the Resistance ranks was a human hacker working for the government that had managed to hide in plain site. No one knew he was a "sympathizer" and his place, wedged deep within their organization gave the Resistance key intel that ensured their survival. It was through him that they had discovered a new camp in Oklahoma had just opened up and was expecting their first shipment of spec "refugees." The Oklahoma facility, being just a state over was plainly a sign of the beginning of the end. Any day the order would come down from the state legislature and they'd be ordered out of their homes, tested, and thrown behind four walls for the rest of their sorry lives. The authorities weren't striking home yet, but it was close enough, and the Resistance was taking it personally.
Today was the day when their intensive planning would all come together. Many of the E-Gens in their group had their own specific set of skills and abilities that had proven useful over the years but their group operated on the principle that "it's not enough." They'd been blessed by evolution, but if they weren't smarter, more prepared, and better trained than their enemy they would never see their children grow up in a world without constant hate and fear. Their children would frankly never exist, their parents wiped out before they'd truly lived.
They gathered in the warehouse, on the outskirts of the city of Dallas. A long time Red Cross board member and philanthropist, Charles Orthwright had purchased the property back in 1980 and leased it to the Red Cross for use as a staging area to mobilize relief supplies. They produced and distributed blankets, tarps, cooking items, hygiene supplies, mosquito nets, and other various items to aid national disaster relief efforts. For years they operated to help people affected by disasters like floods, fires, tornadoes and hurricanes. During Hurricane Katrina they were flying supplies out on a daily basis from the nearby local airport. Unfortunately after 2010 the place was shut down and abandoned, sitting to rust for lack of funding.
Charles is now an old man, but he petitioned the government to be allowed to re-open the warehouse for disaster relief. He's a bit of a crazy eccentric, but he is the heart that fuels the softer sides of the Resistance. Many of the Resistance members work in the warehouse assembling packages that get shipped out to centers for the displaced. To keep up pretenses they send mostly to human only centers, but in reality a good portion of their supplies are snuck out of state to areas where the specs are suffering most.
All of the employees at the warehouse are "given blood tests" by the government but in reality the agents that came to visit just had a very special E-Gen convince them they had properly observed the testing process and that all was right with the world. In reality none of the blood the government has on file for them is real. It's all donated by human sympathizers or stolen from the local hospital trauma center which always has a plethora of donors.
The warehouse is a cover. The feel good, charitable work is what goes on during the day to the eyes of the outside world. It's meetings like this that show the Resistance for who they really are: soldiers. Today they have all assembled for tonight's mission in the lower levels of the facility. It's mostly storage: row upon row of boxes of supplies. But as you travel back the air changes. It no longer smells like old blankets and pre-packaged food. The faint smell of gun oil, leather, and gasoline can just barely be detected. When they first arrived they constructed a false wall and through a palm sensor and steel doors is "where the magic happens."
The room looks just like the exterior storage with high shelving units holding boxes and trunks and a ceiling that extends two stories up. But within each compartment you find grenades, medical kits, repelling rope, weapons of every shape and size. At the far end of of the large room is what they all fondly call the "war zone." A big, heavy table acts as the centerpiece and a variety of projectors and computer screens adorn the wall closest to it, which is blank except for a over-sized white board. A large map is currently projected on the white board, showing southern Oklahoma in black and white. A filing cabinet stands opened and well used. One of the folders has been removed and sketches and ideas are strewn at various angles across the table. A resistance member sits at the computer, typing away, corresponding with what is likely an ally reporting in.
Slowly people begin to trickle in, anxiously awaiting someone to take the floor and start barking orders. It has been a long time since they've attempted a rescue mission this daring and the tension is almost palpable.
Once you sign on to go to one of these camps Marshall Law reigns supreme and you can kiss your blessed freedom goodbye. Everything the government does is for the good of the human race, and no one in power really gives a damn about the freaks that have sprouted up among them. They are panicked. This is a situation where they need to demonstrate how they have everything "under control." But that's the thing about the human race, specs and norms alike. They aren't big fans of being controlled.
The Resistance had been quiet lately, running surveillance and gathering intel for the upcoming mission which had taken months to plan. One of the key members of the Resistance ranks was a human hacker working for the government that had managed to hide in plain site. No one knew he was a "sympathizer" and his place, wedged deep within their organization gave the Resistance key intel that ensured their survival. It was through him that they had discovered a new camp in Oklahoma had just opened up and was expecting their first shipment of spec "refugees." The Oklahoma facility, being just a state over was plainly a sign of the beginning of the end. Any day the order would come down from the state legislature and they'd be ordered out of their homes, tested, and thrown behind four walls for the rest of their sorry lives. The authorities weren't striking home yet, but it was close enough, and the Resistance was taking it personally.
Today was the day when their intensive planning would all come together. Many of the E-Gens in their group had their own specific set of skills and abilities that had proven useful over the years but their group operated on the principle that "it's not enough." They'd been blessed by evolution, but if they weren't smarter, more prepared, and better trained than their enemy they would never see their children grow up in a world without constant hate and fear. Their children would frankly never exist, their parents wiped out before they'd truly lived.
They gathered in the warehouse, on the outskirts of the city of Dallas. A long time Red Cross board member and philanthropist, Charles Orthwright had purchased the property back in 1980 and leased it to the Red Cross for use as a staging area to mobilize relief supplies. They produced and distributed blankets, tarps, cooking items, hygiene supplies, mosquito nets, and other various items to aid national disaster relief efforts. For years they operated to help people affected by disasters like floods, fires, tornadoes and hurricanes. During Hurricane Katrina they were flying supplies out on a daily basis from the nearby local airport. Unfortunately after 2010 the place was shut down and abandoned, sitting to rust for lack of funding.
Charles is now an old man, but he petitioned the government to be allowed to re-open the warehouse for disaster relief. He's a bit of a crazy eccentric, but he is the heart that fuels the softer sides of the Resistance. Many of the Resistance members work in the warehouse assembling packages that get shipped out to centers for the displaced. To keep up pretenses they send mostly to human only centers, but in reality a good portion of their supplies are snuck out of state to areas where the specs are suffering most.
All of the employees at the warehouse are "given blood tests" by the government but in reality the agents that came to visit just had a very special E-Gen convince them they had properly observed the testing process and that all was right with the world. In reality none of the blood the government has on file for them is real. It's all donated by human sympathizers or stolen from the local hospital trauma center which always has a plethora of donors.
The warehouse is a cover. The feel good, charitable work is what goes on during the day to the eyes of the outside world. It's meetings like this that show the Resistance for who they really are: soldiers. Today they have all assembled for tonight's mission in the lower levels of the facility. It's mostly storage: row upon row of boxes of supplies. But as you travel back the air changes. It no longer smells like old blankets and pre-packaged food. The faint smell of gun oil, leather, and gasoline can just barely be detected. When they first arrived they constructed a false wall and through a palm sensor and steel doors is "where the magic happens."
The room looks just like the exterior storage with high shelving units holding boxes and trunks and a ceiling that extends two stories up. But within each compartment you find grenades, medical kits, repelling rope, weapons of every shape and size. At the far end of of the large room is what they all fondly call the "war zone." A big, heavy table acts as the centerpiece and a variety of projectors and computer screens adorn the wall closest to it, which is blank except for a over-sized white board. A large map is currently projected on the white board, showing southern Oklahoma in black and white. A filing cabinet stands opened and well used. One of the folders has been removed and sketches and ideas are strewn at various angles across the table. A resistance member sits at the computer, typing away, corresponding with what is likely an ally reporting in.
Slowly people begin to trickle in, anxiously awaiting someone to take the floor and start barking orders. It has been a long time since they've attempted a rescue mission this daring and the tension is almost palpable.