 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Contravene Birth 07.04
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 6 January 2006, 9:40 am
Read/Post Comments
|
Contravene Birth
07.04
The grinding feeling sent small yet noticeable shimmers of pain up the spinal chord, an obvious indicator of a near paralysis injury. The neck was craned to the right in an awkward position, never to return to its intended state, and the feet remained limp; all feeling had vanished from that portion of the body. The right arm was undeniably broken, the elbow twisting back and the bone exposed through the torn skin; the shoulder blade was fractured in several hundred pieces, followed by a crushed collar bone. There was very little left intact on the beaten and broken body, and with every passing second the diminishing strength evaporated from the heaving man crawling along the empty hallway.
Doctor David Marcus gritted his teeth together as he clawed his way along the spotless corridor, wincing as the clenched jaw resembled the grinding feeling in his back. His breathing was erratic, and he could feel his body shudder from the sustained injuries. His heartbeat was far faster than he thought could ever be possible, and fatefully it pumped blood right out of his body and onto the white floor. The older doctor tried to crane his neck behind him, but the crippled upper body defiantly called back with a wave of unbearable pain, a sure indication that he was mortally wounded.
The deep guttural growl flooded the empty white hallways, echoing throughout the subterranean facility. A gasp of pain exited from the Doctor's mouth as he forced his entire body around to look behind him; down the featureless corridor lay a thick and dark blood trail, sickly distorting the bright lights that reflected off it from overhead. From somewhere behind him, down any one of the many intersecting hallways, another growl—that more closely resembled a scream—pierced into the still air, motivating the fading Doctor to turn forward and continue his painful crawl along the corridor.
With every inhale, he nearly choked on some congesting substance in his throat, and with very exhale, he spat up a deep red matter that stuck to the clean floor with far too much ease. He used his one good arm to pull his body along the unblemished floor in front of him, but kicked his legs in futility as they slipped effortlessly on the blood trail plaguing his past. Small cries of desperation exited from the man's mouth as he gave every remaining ounce of energy into this awkward crawl, trying with all that lingered in his body to get away from the monster of his own creation.
His analytical mind had stopped scrutinizing his surroundings, and it had stopped venturing into philosophical contemplation as it did when boredom was present. Now all it did was record the events as seen through his bloodshot eyes; every gruesome and excruciating pull by his one good arm, and every vain, slippery kick by his legs. Not even memories of a brighter past, of those he cared for, or for what even went wrong here flashed by; rather, every passing second was nothing but a day in hell, an endlessly agonizing moment where everything was wrong.
Several blinks helped clear his red vision enough for him to comprehend the doorway just ahead on the left. With a deep gasp—and a subsequent cough of blood—Dr. Marcus clawed along the smooth surface for it, willing everything within to at least get to that door. He pulled his battered body up to it, turning to lean upright against the door and look back down the corridor that would forever remain and memory of unbearable pain and unendurable fear. He looked down at his two legs, and suppressed a regurgitating cough as the once white lab clothing was smeared with dark blood. The Doctor followed the red trail down the corridor once again and realized just how much blood he had lost, and he found himself in partial surprise of his ability to even think.
That scream echoed yet again through the hallways, reminding him of the fiend he was trying to flee from. He forced his good arm up and opened the door, falling backwards as it flew open from his weight leaning against it. The Doctor rolled over onto his stomach and repeated the grasping action he had endured all down that hallway, pulling himself into the dark room. The sensor picked up his motion, and the lights automatically illuminated the area, allowing him to figure out where he was.
Ignoring the grinding pain every time he mobilized his legs, he kicked the door shut and looked up onto the table in front of him. Sitting right on the edge of the desk was a notepad, something that would have to do since he doubted his ability to get any farther from this beast. He reached up for it and pulled it down, blinking as a pen fell from atop it and onto his bloodied face. Pausing for a moment before clearing his slowing mind, he grasped roughly for it, rolling onto his back to write after ensuring that the small instrument would not elude his clutch. His hand shook uncharacteristically from the excessive blood loss, but he ignored the ill-fated signs and pressed the pen onto the yellow paper. This would be his last act.
The pen shakily drew out a line, then another perpendicular to the top of it. Two more lines formed next to it, connected in the middle by another, followed by three horizontal lines linked by a single vertical line.
They're all dead.
Dr. Marcus could feel his mind drifting, and his body going cold, but shook off the damning signs of his death. If he was going to do anything, it was get this information out. Too much had been spent on this project for it to be left in the dark like this; he had to make the deaths of his team and colleagues worthwhile, as well as the time they spent fostering this entire blunder. He had to justify this mistake.
But in our death, we found the answer.
Another scream from somewhere out there filtered through, but the director chose to ignore the menacing beings that now roamed his facility. He knew that at some point—at some end—he would become one of them, but until that moment, until his incapacitation, he would get every shred of knowledge in his mind out. All the facts, all the history, and all the suspicions he had developed over the course of this unfortunate end would somehow be made known. While his ability to carry on ended in this room, the truth would not die with him. It couldn't.
From my suppositions, the parent being was captured in an attempt to learn more about the alien species. However, the electro-paralysis weapon used to subdue the alien also inadvertently caused a contagious infection to form over the being, one that is transferable to, as I would infer, any creature capable of breath. This virus, however—one that I will die from, as will the rest who accompanied me to the chamber when the parent being was revived—is not only deadly. It changes you into something else, something that knows no fear, no end, and no beginning. I witnessed this happen to my colleagues, and I can feel it work through me.
This mutated infection was no doubt formed by the Ascendus Practice implementation, and somehow the controversial Practice that is known to alter consciousness has altered this virus as well; this also leads me to suspect that the infection was far more psychologically potent than initially suspected, or reported in the information package.
Most importantly, however, the infection brings about nothing but evil, nothing but death, and it must be stopped at all due costs. No being under the surface of this facility can be left alive, and no shred of flesh can leave this facility. Based on the damning circumstances encountered when the parent being was revived, that infection will not simply die as we do. It will live on, beyond all odds, dormant in the infected bodies, until it can spread again. As such, everything down here must be destroyed; nothing can leave. This is the utmost priority.
Marcus' body shuddered as he felt something move in him. His bloodshot vision cleared somewhat to a seeable thick red, and his back tingled with a sensation that surprisingly relieved the constant pain coursing through his body with a numbing wave. Whatever had taken his comrades over was slowly taking him over; time was running out.
Secondly, there is an implication among the highest echelon of our command. The cause of the dissension that led to this demise was an offer to the dissenters that they would be guaranteed a life away from this work and fear. The alleged party that instigated all this and who was offering such a bountiful reward is the highest in the land: the UN Council. They started all this to get the developed being out, out of fear that we would find something within it. They know of something, something wrong or damning or insinuating that must be covered up. Follow the trace; find out what they know.
The director closed his eyes tightly as something caused him to twitch.
Now, in the final moments I have left, it must be known. There is a high probability that the developing being—the offspring from the parent being—is infected as well. And, by the coercion of the UN Council, that being is now beyond the walls of this facility. If this is true, if that infection does subsist within, a greater, cataclysmic event awaits, one that no man can stop. That alien must be found, before this infection spreads to millions.
Marcus suddenly stood up; no pain was felt, no constriction by broken bones or any internal injuries. His vision was still red, his body still deeply bruised, and blood still flowed from his mouth, but none of this inhibited his ability anymore. Some ulterior consciousness within fought for power against his, and he could feel himself slipping away to nothing but a distant observer through these crimson eyes. He clenched his fists and forced himself to turn around, somehow overcoming the now predominate entity that fought to control all functions of his body, quickly setting the paper on the table he once leaned against and pressing the pencil onto the blood stained notebook.
Finally, the answer. The answer to a question that has plagued my thoughts ever since this being arrived, ever since this project began. The answer has finally befallen me after weeks of contemplation and endless nights full of premonitions.
He gritted his teeth as it clinched the fight for unmitigated control.
It is the enemy within. It is that voice that causes nightmares, and that uses us when we fail to recognize its presence. It is the entity that changes good men into thieves, that asserts mediocrity as a virtue, and that entices hate—or worse, failure to stop it. Now, that entity has become more than a voice, more than a way of life. It has become a reality through this very real disease, and now threatens to take all who fail to identify its existence.
It can be stopped, both in spirit and in flesh.
Stop the spread of this physical infection.
And stop the idle hands that help it spread to another mind.
His eyes rolled back as it overtook him. Suddenly, voices filled his head, voices of other beings, of other creatures that had all turned into what he was becoming. They echoed on, as if addressing some central consciousness that was now controlling him, and he found himself understanding the murmuring that was clearly not in any language he understood. It was as if this ulterior consciousness, one that was taking control yet allowed his own to remain, was intrinsically connected with the consciousness of millions out there—all through some predominant entity that he could not hear nor see, but could readily discern.
While this viral empowered awareness proceeded to render him nothing more than a mere observer, a mere bystander behind eyes that were once his, locked inside a body that once belonged to him, he slowly began to understand the true gravity of this infection that had, in all honesty, slipped under the radar. This disease, this corruption of the body and mind, was not some isolated event. Rather, as the voices bore testimony, it was a sickness that existed beyond the reaches of this planet. It was a disease that contaminated more than just him, his colleagues here underground, or the alien being that had brought this upon them.
This thing was out there, this virus, and it was not limited to them or this species of alien. It inhabited millions, and all of them were under some supernatural accord. Moreover, this thing had some purpose, some motivation, some impetus behind it. As the intrinsically-linked consciousness now powering his body let known to his own, it was clear that his body was becoming part of a greater existence.
That was the true answer. It wasn't the conspiracy involving the United Nations Council, nor what secrets lay within that alien species. It was this sickness that now abounded in greatness, and it was spreading. Slowly but steadily, this thing was taking the minds and bodies of all it came into contact with.
Maybe it couldn't be stopped. Maybe the reality of this sickness was above and beyond what he or any other man could do. If that was truly the case, then the conspiracy he feared, and the secrets that abounded, where not fully unexplained or in fact isolated. There was more to this, so much more, yet the evil that had plagued his thoughts ever since this thing arrived and the premonitions that forewarned him of this were not enough to stop this—to stop this from stopping him. And, painfully, it was realized that this truly was a blunder, a monster of his own creation.
This blunder was spreading.
This monster was growing.
All in a contravene birth of mistakes and conspiracies.
|
