Vudukudu
Farseer to the Warsong Clan
Post Shift Earth:
The following is a list of the lands lost to the Shift.
Midwestern America
The Caribbean
Middle Canada
Colombia, Venezuela, and the Amazon Basin
Tunisia, Algeria, and Niger
The Pacific Islands
Southern India
The Middle East
The United Kingdom
Western France
Eastern Spain
Chinese Seaboard
Eastern Russia
Korea
Japan
Setting:
The date is July 3rd, 2132. Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Shift. Centuries of global warming had raised the atmospheric temperature a few degrees. The results were cataclysmic.
The polar ice caps melted, releasing a flood of near-biblical proportions. The amount of inhabitable land saw a stark decline, upsetting our national boundaries and displacing billions of people. Everything changed as the water rushed in.
With the number of refugees in the billions, things had to change. Thankfully enough, it was not society that changed, but the government that managed it. What is left of the Americas bound together with the remainder of Western Europe and Australia, forming the Terran Republic. Similarly, the survivors of Eurasia and Africa joined together, forming the Eurasian Confederacy.
One hundred years ago, the name of the game had been oil. We fought over energy, not living space. The new reasons for violence were arable land, fresh water, and rare metals. It was not long before the resource stress of the Shift led to violent conflict between the Confederacy and Republic.
Just as the reasons of war have changed, so has the manner of war. In the race for the ultimate advantage over the enemy, both sides delved into formerly prohibited research. The Republic looked within, and the Confederacy looked without. For the Republic, genetically modified warriors were the next generation of soldier. For the Confederacy, cybernetic enhancement was the new dawn.
The war has been on and off for almost two decades now. During a brief cease fire, the Republic finally perfected it's art of war. The first generation of Spectres was born, and they were trained in secret. The two powers maintained a tense peace, rapidly militarizing their new, temporary borders. Eight years after the first successful birth of the Spectres, the Republic once again prepares for war.
Birth
Beep. Beep. Beep. "Specimen Developmental Stage One complete."
The voice is feminine and monotone, and it is the only voice you have ever heard. Mother, perhaps?
Creaaakk. FWOOSH. Thud.
The bottom of the canister, your home, opened up. A few large holes drained the fluid you have floated in for almost three weeks now. You fall to the ground with a wet thud, no sensation entering through your pale skin, no air passing through your blue lips. In the foggy glass of the canister, you see a pale, wet corpse. Is it another canister, or a reflection?
Click. Click. Click. Gasp.
The respirator clicks loudly three times. Your airflow stops, leaving you gasping and sputtering like a fish out of water. Your lungs rebel, burning and aching as they are denied oxygen. The respirator retracts like a snake, coiling up against the ceiling of your canister. You continue to choke on the nothingness for what feels like days before a sudden rush of air floods the tank. You feel your lungs inflate once more, and the haze in your vision retreats.
Thwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwip.
The wheels roll quietly over the linoleum floor. You're being moved on a cart of some sort. You're not sure how or when you were taken from your canister, but you're powerless to move your limbs, and home feels so, so far away. A noiseless scream escapes your lips, a desperate call for safety.
"Specimen entering Developmental Stage Two."
Mother? Mother! Help me, Mother!
"Begin System Flood Procedure."
Mother? Mother! Help!
"Current fatality rate to date: 100%."
MOTHER!
"Initiate."
You see clear tubes, jutting out in all directions. At the corners of your vision, you see colors begin to appear. They leak inwards, following the paths of the tubes. Some are red, others blue, some clear, a few grey, and one black. They creep inwards, getting closer and closer to you until they bend out of your view. Moments after you can no longer see their progression, an overwhelming, excruciating pain overwhelms you.
"System Flood Initiated. Monitoring Vitals."
Your lips curl. Your throat spasms and twists, as if attempting to constrict itself. One word escapes your lips before everything turns black.
"MOTHER!"
Your limbs respond in a storm of spastic activity. Your formerly limp legs and arms burst with life, kicking and swinging to and fro. You cannot see, but you can feel the pain, as if your very being was stiff wood, fighting against the very notion of movement.
"System Flood Complete. Specimen Status: Alive."
You hear cheering and applause. You breathe heavily, gasping for air as the pain exits your system, just as quickly as it had appeared. The lights in the room go out, leaving you alone in the blackness. You wait, frozen still.
Thwipthwipthwipthwipthwipthwip.
It's the wheels again. You're being moved, and you're limbs will not respond to you, although you can feel them. Bound to the cart, perhaps?
You breathe in, and whisper. "Mother?"
A voice responds, gruff and grainy. "Yes."
The voice is not Mother. This upsets you, tears welling up in your eyes. You wail and struggle, but to no avail. The cart rolls on.
Five Years
You are, biologically speaking, twenty years old. Temporally speaking, you are, as of today, five years old. For five years, you have been taught. Taught to walk, taught to speak, taught to run, jump, duck, carry, push, pull, crawl, type, write, read, aim, squeeze, reload, shift, throw, detonate, kill.
They tell you that you are perfect. That you are the best, in every single way. That you should consider yourself lucky, because you are so much better than all the others. You're unsure of who the others are.
Finally, they explain to you. You aren't normal. Other people were born differently. They did not have the same strengths you had, the same gifts. They took twenty years to develop into the form you had at birth. They were not born with ideas implanted in their brains, ideas that made them develop slowly. You were better than them, smarter, faster, stronger, more durable, more perceptive.
Seven Years
At the date marking your seventh year of life, they finally explained to you your purpose. You were to be a Spectre. From your education, you knew that meant a ghost, and you responded with some hesitation. They quickly assuaged your fears, saying it was a metaphor, and not meant literally.
You would be the new breed of fighter for the Republic. Stronger, faster, smarter, and better than any trooper the Confederacy could possibly muster. You were to fight and die for your creators, spill and lose blood for the people you were born to protect. They ushered you into a room you hadn't seen before, labeled "Spectre Barracks".
It was here that you discovered you were not alone, and joined others like you. Others who were special and strong, just as you were.
Eight Years
Operation Torch Bearer begins.
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