NAME: Ophélie Eulalie Latourelle ALIAS(S): N/A CID: 35146 SEX: Female DATE OF BIRTH: 12-05-1998 PLACE OF BIRTH: Marseille, France NATIONALITY: French, Occitan OCCUPATION: N/A LANGUAGE(S): English, French STATUS: MISSING
STATUS: ALIVE AGE: 56 NOTES: FORMER FUNCTIONARY UNDER ARCENAUX'S ADMINISTRATION. REMOVED FROM POSITION AND RELOCATED TO CITY THIRTY-SIX.
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AGE: 22 NOTES: FACTORY MANAGER IN CITY FIFTY-EIGHT AFTER COMPLETION OF FORMATIONS AT ECHELON FACILITY.
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SISTER: MARIE LOUISE LATOURELLE
STATUS: ALIVE
AGE: 28 NOTES: LOW LEVEL ADMINISTRATION POSITION IN CITY FIFTY-NINE. DOCUMENTED FUTURIST.
Early Life 1996-2001
Ophélie Latourelle was born during the winter of 1996 into a family of French aristocrats who date back all the way to the Carolingian era. She was from a young age groomed to fit the mold of high society and it's rigorous etiquette and values all the while attending a local prestigious private school known for educating the children of the rich and affluent. Her childhood was characterized mostly by learning the ropes of the world her parents knew well, accompanying her Mother to soirees and other social events, as well as sometimes her Father, who made use of her to improve his public image as a politician. Decorated with all the comforts afforded to those born into a family with a fortune amassed over centuries by past ancestors, Ophélie and her siblings were poised for an easy, comfortable life, where they could pursue whatever passion peaked their interest. Yet despite such bright prospects, fate had other plans. By only the age of 5, the country she had known and loved was ravaged by portal storms, extinguishing an era and ushering in a new one.
2001-2002
With Xenian flora and fauna ransacking the land, the Latourelle family would attempt to hunker down at their estate on the outskirts of Marseille, kept relatively safe by the stone walls that surrounded the property. What little food stock they had was quickly burned through, and soon the family was subsisting on the leather spines of books and dead crows while the city burned brightly in the near distance, a fire that the walls could not hold back. Homeless, starving masses would flee for the countryside, looking for safety or traveling beyond, and the Latourelle estate stood in the path of many. Many would come seeking shelter, and all were denied, culminating in a disorganized siege committed by refugees, eager to secure themselves the surplus of supplies they falsely believed the Latourelles had. Ophélie would manage to flee as the manor itself was breached, her Mother slain in the ensuing chaos.
2002-2004
Alone, starving, and unlikely to survive for long, a young Ophélie blindly stumbled northwards through a broken world, tagging along and falling out with desperate refugee caravans all bound for the fabled city of Paris, where it was reported the army remained and held out against the alien blight. Meals were scarce, and morale was low, yet through sheer luck, youthful brashness, the young woman would cheat death; though not without many close calls.
In Lyon, the group she traveled with quickly dwindled down to a measly ragtag seven including herself due to unyielding attacks from both Human and not, who would all subsequently scatter in hopes of being better on their own. On her own yet again, she traveled along mostly empty city street, avoiding anyone who stalked about. Yet despite her efforts of caution and avoiding others, a group would chase her down, hellbent on relieving her of what few belongings she possessed-- none of which were of any value. In a desperate escape attempt, she'd move through an abandoned apartment building, only to discover she'd been purposefully lured there, with one of them waiting for her inside. In full sprint, she accidently knocked into them, and sent them toppling down a flight of stairs, and they did not get back up. She fled through a window, continuing on her trek out of the city.
Many places along the road from there would be full of encounters will alien lifeforms, luckily none of which were particularly deadly, nor interested in her. She'd meet up with another caravan, only for them to be attacked in the night outside of Courtenay just a week later of travel by a group of headcrabs and zombies as they slept. A fleeing Ophélie would rush headlong into a necrotic infested city, bobbing and weaving through narrow streets with what were once people stumbles after her all while battling her own exhaustion.
Back on the highway, she would meet up with yet another band of refugees, who should would remain with until they reached the outskirts of Paris, eventually making their way to a refugee camp set up by L'Armée Française in the commune of Créteil, where conditions were no better then out on the road and an almost equal amount of food. It is here, amongst the squalor tent city where disease ran rampant and bodies piled higher then cleaning crews could collect them, she would find and subsequently be reunited with her Father.
The Seven Hour War 2004
A sleepless night spent holding onto her Father tightly as distant explosions rocked the earth to it's core. The army had all but abandoned the camp at this point, moved to the city's heart for their futile final stand. She and her Father would seek shelter in the sewers of Crétail, a decision that would save their lives, as for once the dust had settled and they returned topside, only cinders and corpses remained of the camp they had took refuge in. Blindly the pair stumbled through the decrepit ruins of Paris's for days until apprehended by the newly formed Civil Protection.
Reunification 2004-2007
Allowed to remain with her Father, Ophélie would be kept inside their dingy, decrepit flat at the request of her Father, who would rather sleep in ration lines then at home, all in the pursuit of ensuring his remaining child may perhaps live and prosper in the newly founded world. Isolated from society, an already broken Ophélie would content herself with sweeping and cooking whenever she was given ingredients to do so, becoming a reclusive, selective mute, much to the dismay of her Father, who struggled to get her to speak to even him. Life would remain stagnant and purposeless for three grueling years, which would see the rapid decline of her Father's health, but as well as his reputation amongst the local administration, who had taken a liking to him for his past career as a politician and renowned people pleaser antics, soon ascending into their ranks.
2007-2017
Granted finer living quarters and given a decent pay, alongside loyalist rations, life in some part had began to mirror the past. High society slowly returned to Paris thanks to the loyalist system, and with it came the painful memories of what the Latourelles had lost. Her Father was hit especially hard, who despite seeming happy in public, often spent nights weeping with a bottle in hand. Despite this, he still made sure to care for his Daughter, bringing Ophélie out into loyalist society despite earlier reluctance, where she would painfully slowly acclimate herself back to the social life, albeit now with a severe stutter and an overall timid demeanor.
Though life had improved drastically, cracks would quickly begin to form in the ceiling through the years. Her Father's alcoholism would accelerate, and as would his deteriorating health with it. His vice brought him deeper and deeper into his depression which had started back in 2001, and soon found himself in trouble with the Administration, letting those bribe him with booze so that he may continue to feed his addiction. One of his most egregious offenses was organizing the arrest of a business owner at the behest of another, who promised him free drinks for a month. The CCA would strip him of his job upon this discovery, as well as have Civil Protection drag him kicking and screaming, with his Daughter close in toe. They would be separated, and she forcefully relocated to Geneva.
She steps off the train, alone and scared again, feeling as if she's back in the French countryside, facing down death once more.
Character relations (Ask, and I shall add) LOVESADMIRESRESPECTSBEST FRIENDFRIENDACQUAINTANCEDISTRUSTSDISLIKESHATESDECEASED
Prolétariat
(The Layman, the lower caste)
Akira Ovariss
To think, me asking some silly question after a work shift could lead to such blossoming friendship. You have been there for my highs and my lows ever since I stepped off that train, and for such I am eternally grateful.
Gone without notice, long disappeared. Why bother if they inevitably vanish? Please come back.
After all this time you have returned to my life, yet it feels as if something is out of place, something not quite right-- pieces of the puzzle missing, cast aside in the great cosmos accidently. I am not the same woman you met in that Ration hall, and much like I with Sally though roles reversed, I have risen while you have stagnated. I'm not sure if our friendship will ever be the same, I greet you with waves and smiles but it doesn't click as it once did. A spark that once was has long since fizzled out, given out hope of it ever being relighted before you had the chance to show back up. I hope that can change with time, but time is now scarce and I battle against it.
They say you are not like your former self, yet neither am I. What would you think of me? Would their intuitions prove correct? I fear what the outside world will be, in the unlikely event I am allowed to walk out of this spire.
ThomasCarter
A man with the charm and personality of the men back in Marseille. Despite hardship and trouble thrown his way, he always has a warm smile to offer.
He has been missing for weeks now, and I fear the worst. A kind Officer told me his CID is still active, however all his transactions have entirely ceased since early April. I am left to pray in hopes that he is still out there. Without him, I think my days will always be a little darker.
Time passes, and it is almost as if I have forgotten you entirely. I want to cry.
An opportunity to meet may present itself soon; alas I am not an optimist.
Too hasty by far.
WilliamBrown
A true pillar of the community, seemingly known and liked by all, except perhaps those who he rather liberally slings colorful slurs at. I see William as a man who many ought to aspire to be more like, much as I do.
Another friendly face lost to time. Maybe gone back to Seventeen, maybe lying face down in a ditch, bloated with crows pecking out his eyes.
SamuelCorbett
A perhaps odd, though obviously well-intentioned man. I may not know him, nor particularly his internal personal beliefs all that well, but he has shown his support for the people and their struggle, and thus has earned himself my respect.
Where are you now?
Carrie "Cole" Phelps
The woman responsible for me having a bed to sleep on and a roof over my head during my first few weeks in the city. Without her, I like to think I would probably be dead. I would be lying if I said I knew her well, but she was kind on the few occasions we spoke, and offered me comfort after Rachael's incident-- only to be gunned down mere hours later. I know little of the circumstances, though William told me it had to do with snitching and a loved one. Wherever you are, I hope you know your legacy lives on.
Lukas Stevenson
Current owner of the Homeless shelter in the slums, the one I took refuge in on my first few weeks, back when Cole was at the helm. Despite many adversities, Lukas has done a good job at picking up the pieces from what I can tell, and it brings me great joy knowing that my donations are feeding the needy and the impoverished, whose ranks I once stood amongst not so long ago. Lukas has been pleasant to talk to on all occasions, though I fear I don't know him well enough to consider him a friend, our talks are often short, moreso just an exchange of pleasantries, followed by my donations. I only hope my charity is not willingly reaching the eager hands of violent insurgents with little regard for the innocents that live and frequent Victory and Triumph.
I have not seen you for ages, and the homeless shelter sits vacant. I fear the worse. We keep losing good men.
Only recently have I learned of your passing. You deserved better. Au revoir.
Julia Jerhedt
Yet to be written... sadge
RachaelCrossley
When you asked me for a piece of paper, I thought nothing of it. You abused my naivety, yet I feel only guilt in the end. Never has my heart dropped as hard as it did while standing in the ration line, listening to the others speak of a suicide just upstairs, only moments after we had spoken, and you had so eagerly taken the newly bought piece of paper I had gotten for you. You wasted no time to put it to good use, clearly. I hope only you find more peace in death, then you did in life. Sometimes, I even think you’re amongst the lucky.
With every day that passes, I wish more and more I was in your shoes. Truly an envious disposition.
Claire Lavoie
A kind woman I met at the Pint. Though I find some of her mannerisms odd, especially her insistence on calling me dear and other little names, Claire has proved herself to be kindhearted and caring, going so far as to keep herself at tier 2 so that she may go into the slums and aid with the shelter. I am happy to call her a friend, even if we have not known each other for all that long
Gone. Why bother.
Aria Morris
A real merrymaker if I have ever met one. She's nice enough and invites me out to drink, which I appreciate greatly even if I'm not a huge fan and both instances that I accepted ended poorly for the us two. Despite my reclusiveness you seem to take faith in me and enjoy my company, as I do yours. I only wish your lust for the swill kept yourself and others out of trouble.
Gone without trace. Perhaps she has found the party that never ends.
Nikola Ratimiri
I know not when we met, but Nikola has been kind at all times, even once helped me to my apartment after Aria dragged me into the slums to drink-- one of the few times I have ever been drunk, and hopefully the last, I have no intention of following in my Father's footsteps. I don't particularly know him well, yet his friendly demeanor and disposition certainly makes him someone that I feel inclined to put faith in-- Kind people are those who I like to have as company, after all.
Gone. Please be alive.
It seems you too have gotten a taste for it too: For the unrelenting freedom of the lands beyond the grasps of the Civil Administration and Overwatch. Enchanted with its beauty so much the shields you had once built around yourself have come crumbling down. I never took you as a diehard zealot, and as much as you may proclaim yourself having been one, your actions speak other: Lukas did not have clean hands, this much I am sure, and I am sure you know too. We both helped a cause those in power opposed despite its good intentions. We were dissidents before you even knew it.
Cattle iron pressed against my temple, its searing iron leaving trenches across my skin-- A man such as yourself could not be as I see you. Lies, fabrications; but what is real and what is a construct? You have flown the nest the moment after we last saw one another. Smart. Very smart, I likely would have sold you out out of no compulsion of my own: A byproduct of my conditioning, that newfound desire to serve despite the lingering doubts, the memories they can not or chose not to conceal. No, Nikola has not once persuaded me ever to give food to those in the Shelter, that is a decision I made of my own volition: Something I for a time had been stripped off and even now lack. I hope you are there, there wherever they shall put us, put me. You are one of the few that manage to stem the tides of misandry that crash against my breakwaters.
Charlotte McMadison
One of a myriad of weary faces in a crowd of millions, yet this one is not a stranger, even if I do not know her all that well. She is friendly, and while clearly not as timid as me, doesn't strike me as particularly outgoing-- a cause of slight concern for me, for a feel this might be to her detriment, as it has been mine in many cases before and likely in the future. I'm glad you entrusted me enough to talk about your and Claire's assault however. I value your trust, and will not take it lightly. I do hope we can get to know each other a little better, my number of friends of the same sex seem to diminish every few weeks...
Gone with Claire. I hope you're both together, you were inseparable. I'll pray for you both, just as much as I hope you pray for me.
RoyJackson
The biggest enigma to ever grace the face of earth. A man who claims that happiness is an unworthy pursuit and finds amusement in enabling a broken woman's alcoholism. I do not know what to think of him, but I know I don't want him as a friend, nor particularly in my presence. He reeks of unfounded smugness and elitism, I half expect to see him amongst them too, at some point. Also called me "Little rabbit" and said "I had become quite entertaining". I half belief he is some sort of sociopath, yet he gave me some tea and seems overall harmless enough.
Even he is gone.
Timothy Taylor
A friend of Sven's and frequent visitor at the Pint, even if he rarely makes a purchase. Seems typical for the usual rank and file, kind enough with a verbose vocabulary of words fit only on the docks of small fishing towns, where not even God could cleanse them of their foul words. I am not one to judge someone for making use of words one would not find within the bible however, plus he is-- or I like to believe he is a fellow countryman, as evident by his ability to speak French.
Missing. Probably wont turn back up either. The hope I maintain is but a thin facade.
Amirbek Iskakov
Sven's best friend, and another of the first few men I had the pleasure of meeting upon my arrival. A good man, indisputably, heart of gold and pure intentioned. It's a shame when I say that I don't know you all that well, our interactions are brief, most having been simply Sven dragging you to the Pint. Something we definitely need to work on.
Ronald Sykes
The grotesquely giant man I call a coworker. They're kind enough, and surely harmless-- the first time I met them I thought surely they were severely mentally damaged with the whole "Police putting french people to sleep" though its as if the worst of it has healed over the past week or so, and he has developed into a much more endearing personality. I hope the practical knowledge of operating a vending machine has served you well.
Akemi Yamata
A rather blockish though well-meaning woman, despite the trouble she seems to get herself into. I... think(?) you were at one point Elias's sweetheart, though that seemingly did not last. It's hard to remember where we first met, perhaps though the very man you so briefly courted. I know not, but you've many exploits under your belt, and many snide remarks made when you're not in the same room. Overall... I feel indifference, you've been kind to me and I've been kind in return. You can be a hard worker when you want to be and an insolent when met with something you don't favor.
ArthurEastgate (The Eastest of Gates)
The newest boss to add to the ever-growing roster. A kind and respectable man, whose comforted me during times of distress, such as at the Debate where I watched Jenifer's throat be slit (And miraculously survived). Though mangled his appearance may be, there is a good man beyond the scar tissue, this much is certain. I look forwards to working with you more, Mr. Eastgate.
It pains me to watch your health decline so rapidly, to watch a good man fade into a weaker shell of himself thanks to his unwavering commitment to his job-- He deserves better for his scarifies to the Union. We've both placed our trust into one another and I don't think it's much of a mystery where our allegiances lie. We both have sequestered ourselves to silent places where we may speak freely. It's good to know I am not alone in my discontent. It is good to know I have an ally in you.
You will awake to the world and I will be gone. I wish we could have gotten to know each other greater. Your anger has grown but I could always see the good man behind it.
Vegetable.
Felix Poelking
Another man tricked into joining the Militia, and a friend of Timothy. Though I wouldn't necessarily call us friends, all our interactions are friendly to the point we might as well be, we both share many friends and I'm sure our beliefs hardly differ-- we look after one another, as any should for their fellow man. I hope you can conclude your service safely, and move onto better things rather then allowing yourself to be cannon fodder, you deserve better.
The second man to confess their love for me, in a ironically very similar fashion to the first. Even moreso ironic considering they both were being shipped off into battle. Foolishly I told him we could go on a date on his return-- probably a decision I'll come to regret, should he return or not. Like Sven, I don't think I'm ready, there is no spark as described in the few books I've read, only sadness and sympathy. Perhaps I should have gone harder.
The train had left the station, but has never returned. Where are you and your friends? Still fighting, perhaps. Or perhaps you and Timothy were right after all. Be safe, Felix.
No. Had to tell him no. He sits there pouring his heart out to me and I tell him no. He asks me why and I tell him no. He tells me I am the most important thing to him and I only frown. What am I to tell him? He is a good man but alas I feel nothing, he makes me feel nothing, nothing tangible asides from the occasional chuckle or smile. There stands a man greater then most and even then I am not satisfied. What will it take to placate the cold lump of coal buried deep within my chest, passed the lattice of rib bones and layers of sinews?
There is a screwdriver forced under my eyelid and it is being hammered against my skull. At the mere sight of you my stomach wretches and I gasp for air. The memories flooding in like the swells against the breakwaters, but I am flesh and not stone. The emotions persist; my foolish empathy and pity, yet the links that let them exist I cannot find: Perversions. My mind was perverted. Many have tried and many have succeeded in one way or another. So casually you spoke of your delusions to see the world set aflame. To cast our sovereigns from their towers of ivory and have their entrails strewn across the plazas of the world as if party streamers. I fed off of you, denied such ideas yet through exposure some I had internalized, mulled over, my defenses weakened until men with greater cause could come in and sink their claws into my fragile and delicate mind. They will kill you, and you will have deserved it, just as I did and still do.
Spindly hands hold my head and impart upon me memories diffused into the greater aether of my mind. A vault under lock and key, one which I have not access. I see it, the blindfold falls. I weep in the face of such cleverly woven lies unravel before my own eye. It is I the monster. It is I would should bare the punishment you suffer.
Raffaele Ishimaru Menta
Another Miltiaman, one who amongst other three easily saved my life and the lives of Varos and Ronald. His bravery in the face of a much larger enemy is admirable. It's a shame he's come down with the Waltman pox.
Though I may owe you twiceover, your demeanor and personality I have come to detest. So eagerly will you mock the sick, the dying and the dead. Can you not behave like a normal person for five seconds? You stand in shock and awe when we tell you how your remarks and both unwanted and unappreciated. Does a man truly lack the most basic of empathy and human understanding? It's a surprise you didn't enlist as an Officer, I'm sure you'd fit in just fine.
Amelia Hearth
My therapist. An admission that brings me great pain and shame. The 'tough nut' Ophelie Latourelle, consulting with a doctor who recommends I talk about my feelings and traumas while she wags a finger in my face, then have me take drugs that will likely inject voices in my head or make me more subservient to whichever masonic order exists in the bowels of our society. Despite these general reservations, she seems like a sweet enough woman even if a lot of her words certainly seemed rehearsed. A person can only call me brave and say everything is fine so many times before it begins to lose its edge, like an overused butcher's cleaver. I'm skeptical about the effectiveness of this entire treatment but the catharsis of sharing is nice, I suppose. I only hope the things I say remain in that room-- an unlikely possibility, the entire building is likely monitored.
Apparently you died. A sin.
Varos Atkins
My peer. We went through hell together on that train, and made it out alive in large part to your efforts and the OSF who were there to keep us safe. Though we had spoken before and have spoken afterwards, I'd say our relationship remains strictly as peers-- haven't really talked or connected all that much, though he's all around a friendly enough man and certainly a hard worker, which I can admire.
Nils Oskar
A man so belligerent and unruly the mere fact he lives is a miracle and defies all logic. Lesser men before you have been delivered the sweet kiss of death, yet there you stand with your cock in your hand and a prideful grin on your face. I was half-able to tolerate you in the past but after your little stint of 'tripping' into me casually with a loaded needle of RAVE after Agatha explicitly ordered you to inject me with it I much rather never see you again.
Dris Mayweather
Another former Militiaman, with a personality that would surely see him marked for death yet manages to be far more tolerable then Nils. It's a shame to see him expulsed from the Workers Union, he was competent enough and friendly enough to not make me want to shower the Warehouse with my spinal fluids.
Run off with the rebels. Not wholly surprising, I suppose. I hope you strike hard and true, but show mercy where it is deserved. Do not let hatred blind you, or you are no better then the lickspittles in their ivory towers. Their heads may roll for I care but there are many beneath them that are deserving of life. I wish you luck and good health. Perhaps we can one day meet again under favorable circumstances, or perhaps even be peers again, like days of old where all was much simpler.
Arnold Abigail
Are we friends? We might as well be, considering all of the stupid and highly idiotic things we have endured together, both in service of the city and against it. Thought there was a shroud of hostility hanging over the two of us at first, I think we've managed to clear that gap. He reminds me of another man at the tip of my mind, can't quite remember who.
An Officer once decided not to have me searched when entering the Nexus, claiming that I was "Incapable of hurting a fly". Today I beat a man I knew to an inch of his life, to secure my job and my own life. They were wrong, but I hate myself for doing it.
What crimes have I witnessed you commit that I myself am not implicated in? The memories burn bright, their alterations seared into my memory: I cannot dislodge them. I see you coax me into it, lull me into these crimes, not I. But I am wiser now, I see through it, I understand that I have been tampered with, that I am defective in a quite literal sense. No human should be able to be played like this, to have another act as God and cast me in their own image. I'm sorry. I should have spoken but I couldn't. I part my lips to greet you but I am overcome with sickness. I see you and I see him. I see the telescreens broadcast his death on repeat. I see myself in his place. We will find each other again. I will tell you everything that happened.
Daniel Darnell
Owner of Triumph-4. Can't say I know him all that well, but he seems kind enough and has given Felix a job.
Father Joshua
I may not practice faith, nor do I subscribe very heavily to the belief of God, but I can respect a good man when I see one. Father Joshua is no proselytizer like the days of old, only a man with a lot of heart and a desire to help others. Though he says he desires no praise nor does he want others to take inspiration from him, they ought to: There are few men worth a damn now adays, even moreso who go out of their way to help their fellow neighbor. Never falter, Father.
Your face I see no longer. Your visits into society have halted, and with it my little insight into the slums shrivels up. Where have you gone, Father? The lives of many benefit from your mere presence, the city only stands to lose from your absence. I may not be particularly religious, but I pray on your behalf regardless.
Elizabeth Taylor
An old cohort, and at one point employee. Though we perhaps never did get to know eachother on much of a personal level, I can't help but find myself sympathetic for you. I see a visage of myself, fresh off that infernal train, but stuck in time. Perhaps if I had greater charisma, I could rip you out of that shell of yours-- a feat that would likely require me to entirely shed my own, a task easier said then done. Stay strong, don't let the Officers intimidate you, they relish in the power they hold over you.
Anastasia Ivanovich
A woman of impressive and intimidating stature, who could surely unscrew my head given the chance and desire, with none to halt her. Rambunctious and free-spirited is she, a dying breed often stamped down on and put to rest when they grow troublesome or step out of line. Despite her questionable personality she certainly seems like a community-centric individual, which is something we need more of: not many who seek to bring people together, only to divide and conquer.
William Dubois
The latest owner of Victory-5. Certainly has blown the Pint out of the water with his little gentleman's club idea. The atmosphere, the decor, the workers... it's almost insulting, to see my work so flawlessly put to shame, makes me think all was for nought. The man seems friendly enough, we've chatted here and there, though I feel his propensity and willingness to share his woes are the telltale signs of another Sven Aalto in my life.
Right again, or so I think at least. Tonio was the one to tell me, and at Waltman's little party you were brazen enough to refer to me as "the most beautiful woman in the world". A lot more tactile the Sven talking about my chest, but I'm still unsure what to think of it. Romance is such a silly thing and the moment I try to wrap my head around it the world begins to spin-- not because I'm enamored but because I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps I'm simply broken beyond repair.
Another cadaver for the body counters to add to their statistics. A hard worker and a better bar owner then I could ever be. Despite his claims of insanity he is more sane then half the damned City. The Captain may proclaim him traitor, but in the hearts of many he goes down a Hero, even if the title is not wholly apt. Dubois was Dubois. A man who walked our hallowed streets, loved and was loved, hoped and dreamed as any other might. In the end I feel cold. A wasteful death, of another man who only sought to do good. It was stupid of him to return to the station, for the sole reason of giving me an axe no doubt. I am lucky they spare me from the halter for the mere fact of association. Should you look upon us from wherever you may find yourself, spare yourself the trouble. There is naught worthwhile to be found in the world of which you've departed. Repose bien.
They took it. They took your hat.
I see it now. How you and others abuse my kindness. Lure me in and give their story, make my heart hang heavy with pity for another unfortunate soul in the world. None of it was ever real. Probably never loved me to begin with, more schemes to make me feel bad for you, to feel guilt, break me down so you can build me back up into a monster. It is fortunate I had enough sense to not follow you into your land of delusions; trying to "become" a vortigaunt, as if such a thing were possible. They are lying to you just as much as you lied to me. And yet despite it all, the memory of your death still brings me pain-- why?
Harriet Miller
The old man who never stops being young. Harry is certainly a nice enough man, with his strange accent that I can't quite identify: English perhaps, or one of the neighboring states. Can't say I know him all that well, met in Victory-2 and ever since he keeps popping into my life; likely inevitable considering he's friends with Waltman.
Plotting and scheming like conniving rats while the world around us burns and paints the skies a blousy orange. It seems we've both our heads in a similar mindset. Our 'Party' was a good build of trust, between you and all involved. My only hope it that it does not come to bite any of us in the ass. Stay strong, Harriet, don't let the world burn you, you have so much more to offer it.
Raven Scott
Another rank and file in the ever-growing lesbianite army of the City-- least I assume so, judging by how she was always attached to the hip with all the others I suspect to be amongst this metaphysical army. Nice enough of a woman, though a little unruly and rambunctious when on the swill.
Boonie
A race traitor, according to one particularly overzealous Officer who took great pride in wasting precious ammunition on the already desecrated corpse of a young woman. Though I hold no reservations against Vortigaunts, you prove a bit of an enigma, eager to serve both the Union while simultaneously quick to defend life would view worth fighting for, even if the Union decides otherwise. My experience with others has usually been rather black and white, one or the other. He's helped us on multiple occasions, and the City surely would not have last as long as it had without his aid. He is no race traitor, simply has kind heart-- something many lack.
Warren Goodwin
Another peer from the Workers union, kind and outgoing. Though our workplace relation is healthy I do not know the man all that well, and more importantly remain ignorant on his loyalties. He's another of many friends of Waltman's however-- not that that fact has ever stopped anyone from harboring doubts.
Tonio Di-Vecellio
Another great enigma that freely roams the streets of Geneva, is allowed to shelter in the loyalist block and who blasts subpar old world music as if the Gods themselves plucked those guitar strings. I find him almost robotic in demeanor, his mannerisms a little too sharp in delivery, too calculated. A facade he puts up perhaps? I certainly believe so, for there are times the enigma is dropped, and the words which he evoke sound staunchly human: Words of sympathy and compassion, of worry and concern. Mr. Di-Vecellio you make my head spin with confusion, but in the end I believe you amongst the good people of the city. The sane ones too, perhaps. You do not proclaim your adoration for the Union, you do not parrot zeal, you are a man who enjoys living, who enjoys friends, and enjoys his work. I admire a humble man.
You have grown to be much more then I could have ever initially envisioned. You are more then a good man. You are a man of action, but of little glory. It is only you and those you let in who are relishing in your victories. You are not like the others. Pride does not mar your vision. You stare ahead, eyes on the prize. Don't die. Never falter. When it is all said and done I hope we can still be friends, still be in contact. The men I know and respect dwindle by the day, do not join them in the great beyond.
"Hammer"
One of many lapdogs, though the only one which I know by name. A name, not his own, surely. Silly alias concocted to shield his actual identity. I barely know what your little organization is or what their purpose is other then protect those in power and already I've fallen victim to your batons. Your colleagues display cold disinterest, but you prove a little different, seeking me out, seeking to use me as many have warned me of before. As many have before. Whether you even live I know not, but should you live I have some plans for you, just as much as you've surely plans for me. I hope perhaps we can forge some form of mutual friendship, but knowing your line of work chances are more likely you will simply shoot me when I least expect at, on the orders of someone from on high. Walk lightly, Mr. Hammer. God watches over us all.
Harry Bliss
Eager to see my lungs rot with the foul stench of tobacco. Another face amongst the crowd who's name I now know. His care for my campaign and his attempts to refine my social capacities prove endearing but his haste to also extend his support to the Vanguards has me cautious. The Vanguards may not pray for the death of anyone under tier one but their beliefs are ambiguous enough to where such a reality is far from out of the picture and the narrative could easily be shifted to meet the demands and expectations of the elites. Even if he is some Union fanatic, I'll take him any day over those they entrust in Governance.
Uwe Schulz
A man who seems kind enough when talking to him in person, yet his politics take a detour-- Calls for deaths, promotion of public executions. Is he preaching to the choir or is he simply another seemingly innocuous man bound by zealotry? Scarily numerous their ranks have become, men you might think sane and then call for the death of any who don't strut about without an armband, as if such alone was enough was cause for a swift severing from the mortal coil.
CallumCrown
Another face in the Medical Union. I shan't take your words of doubt to heart, you have full reason to doubt me as should any others, but I remain confident that your doubts are based off of my word and the content of my character, that and nothing else-- the only judgement which I can ask one to make. I hope that now in office I can prove you wrong, not as revenge nor so I may boast, but to prove to you my determination is unfaltering and my commitment is absolute.
A self-made man of high renown, rising quicker then most up the ladder I ascended in a year's time. I scarcely remember the times where you were confined to the Clinic, suturing wounds or whatever they may of had you doing. You've even gone ahead and thrown your name in the hat for Chairperson elections. I wish you the best, for all the other candidates would be better off taken out back and shot.
Purple armband you don, smile you do not. The words of Beauregard ring in my head, refusing to cease: The most useful Loyalists are those not subscribed to ardent zeal, but those fueled by their own interest and the interest of those they love. Who do you love, Mr. Crown? Who are they holding hostage? It's clear to me that you are not amongst the blind zealots.
Another pompous ass in the legion of many, pushing pencils and printing papers. The purple armband you wear but you are a dog, an unaware dog who thinks himself independent and as a result thinks himself in a place to look down upon others. One day the handler will tug the leash and remind you of who you are, show you your place. We'll see then if you relish in their command or rebel against their order.
Did you scream when you died? Or did they shoot you when you least expected it? Retribution is seldom dished out so quick.
Grant Pressman
A man friendly often boasting a friendly disposition, though his propensity to find himself strutting about dressed in a myriad of bandages always manages to rouse some concern from me: What do you do and continue to do to incur such wrath from the Civil Protection? A man of such innocent intention and borderline simple-minded demeanor, who surely would not hurt a fly unless backed into a corner-- perhaps simply the perfect victim for their cruel games and sick thrills.
Dead. The exact reason eludes me. Suicide by cop, supposedly expecting a position which I held in perpetuity until my term come to a close. Why would you do that? So foolish, so stupid. The irony is not lost on me but the laughter I have yet to find.
DaveMcAllen
Like a bloodhound you likely sniffed me out in District Eleven, be it from the curiosity of my armband and the kindness, or rather lack of malice I displayed. A "Survivor", as you so titled it. You're a breath of fresh air, a soul who I can talk to without the conversation getting sidetracked to dump your traumas upon my shoulders, someone who understands the innate human desires we all hold and can only suppress for so long before going mad or going out in a blaze. You might be my very undoing but my undoing I welcome with open arms-- The happiest moments of my life have all been out of the watchful eyes of the Union, I wouldn't mind a few more before I turn the final corner.
Your secrets you entrust me with readily, but the second things inevitable begin to unravel you assume I am at fault. I don't have anything to gain from shining a light onto your little world of hushed whispers and excursions under the dead of night. Physically pains me to think you'd think me responsible, doubly so that through your stupidity now Officers are knocking at my doors. I could have had you all killed long ago. Why would I wait until now?
Sorry. Says he's sorry. I've no reason to doubt him yet my faith in the man is starting to wane, just as it has for any man. His operation is shaky, half of his thugs know my name and liberally speak it over their radio. Might as well smuggle me a gun so I can shoot myself with it at this rate, seeing how things are going. For long I have wanted to do good, but no matter the circumstances the grim reality of things catches up on us all. We are the dead. Our death was signed before the thoughts of doubt could even form themselves in our mind. We are not made for this world.
So easy it is to trick myself into believing you are at fault. The fault is my own. You may have opened the door but it is I who paved this road once down the path. Dead or not, your war will continue: More will die, and we will be no closer to the world we want. We are the last generation, and we are only expediting our liquidation.
The eager masses hasten to crowd under the telescreens, staring wide-eyed at a sight that ought be familiar by now: Another execution. I stand at the back, the world is spinning and my vision narrows whilst my head screams a thousand languages-- I am disgusted, but I cannot understand why. Proudly I scream glory, but my knees tremble and I yearn for an escape. Something is wrong, none of this feels right. Why am I not celebrating in earnest?
Joseph Holt
Men of any worth are few and far between, let alone one charitable enough to sacrifice his time and progress in society in the service of others not so fortunate. The Shelter was not destined to last long yet still you fight, not with guns and bombs but through supporting the very people the Union has deemed unworthy of the most basic of accommodations: People whose ranks I once belonged within. Never stop fighting, but never let the heat burn you-- Good men are no good dead.
Daniel Jelczuk
Think it was at Dubois' house party I meant him, a man acquainted to few, there with a friend-- don't remember who they were either. Can't recall for certain. Friendly enough, talked periodically back in Forty-three, now he's joined our ranks-- blends in rather nicely with the rest of the crowd of extraordinarily ordinary men in the Workers Union.
Piofli Kennedy
Your name is vaguely familiar. I know not where I know it but it has surely reached my ears before your enlistment in the Workers Union. A man who if outstanding in his field, I have yet to bare witness to his expertise. Another face in the uniform, nigh-unrecognizable from the last, though exuding a certain air of flamboyance which business is none of mine yet I find myself thinking of from time to time.
VladimirPetrenko
One of many in a legion of horribles. How many have died by your hand? How much blood has been spilt? Buildings bombs? Scalps collected to fuel the bloodlust of you and your colleagues. Your association with McAllen I was never quite certain how deep it went but I am quite certain you are not his dog, no. You are a man of yourself, someone who perhaps leads, or works as an enforcer. The finger to pull triggers, and not only the gun you yield. You fight a war but it is not for a just cause, it is for your own sick and twisted satisfaction.
I see your face and I want to vomit. I hear your voice and I want to vomit. You tell me of things I know already but want to forget, and I want to vomit. The world spins, head pounds, dirtied tiles the only comfort in that bathroom. I hate you. I hate you but I know why now. I am not myself. I have been tampered with, tweaked to the liking of other men like some defective doll. I want to vomit.
There is a great anger in your soul and you hide it poorly. One day it will flare up and it will burn you whole. I don't know if you intended to shoot me, or cage me, maybe beat me and torment me just as they did. Remove my other eye, sauté it, eat it with a pinch of salt then pour kerosene in my gaping eyeless sockets. It's my fault, I know it's my fault. You *should* shoot me, *they* shouldn't of stopped you.
Dead. Deceased. Six feet under. Bit the dust. Ate the bullet. No more. They speak highly of you, were ready to risk their own lives for you, just as you seemingly did for them, for one man specifically. The selflessness I must admire; It takes a certain pedigree of brazenness or perhaps even enviable stupidity to give yourself over to the enemy in the vain hope you will find the friend they have taken from you and others. Now they are likely dead, just as you are. I do not hate you, not /truly/. The hatred they have programmed me to feel remains but no, I do not celebrate the news of your death. Your passing nor is the passing of any an occasion to celebrate.
'Kat'
Victim of cruel circumstances we both share alongside likely many others. Despite the word being out you still smile and say hello like many others. Do none of you see what I have done? Is the gravity lost on all of you? Blind to those dead thanks to I, unintentionally or not? The alternative I struggle to stomach. The world is not made for I and it is likely not made for you. Wayward souls in a land with no destination. This is limbo. Our waystation. Simply waiting for the stars or the kiss of death.
Late. Late to tell me. Late to sow the seeds of doubt. I see my undoing and I know it shall come soon. The rifle is a possibility once more. I am back in that prison. They will shoot me when I least expect it. When I think all is in order and the world will be right. The serene silence, broken with the crack of a rifle and the vomiting of my brains onto the cold concrete. And despite all the fear both sides I have members I care deeply for. Ones I would not wish to abandon but who shan't switch one side for another. I am fighting an impossible battle and I will lose, and in losing likely doom many with me.
Blindly once more I put my fate into the hands of the clumsy and the oftentimes careless, all in the vague hope that there is a better life then the one I lead. My mind is still scarred. And every time I look upon you there is a revulsion that I cannot put into words, one that has been hardwired: I can't help it, they made me this way. Out there I smile but my head is spinning. I want to vomit, I'm just learning to hold it better. With every successive lose you grow more emboldened in your actions, more determined in your cause. Should you let the flame continue to burn brighter you will be no different then Petrenko. Shoot anyone who is a potential risk, think none of it. Do not lose your humanity nor your empathy, it is what separates you from the Tyrants. Resistance is not only a battle fought with guns and bombs, it is as much a battle of the mind. Breen is correct when he says we must fight instinct. Instinct tells us to take the easiest path, and the easiest path is oftentimes the one with the most corpses in our wake. Who will rise to celebrate your victory should they all be dead?
Perhaps I have grown callous. Hospitals have yet to be bombed in your name. If anything, it has thusfar been Trevor and Evelyn that have foolishly flung themselves at precarious endeavors which have nearly cost us our very own safety. You say you will not come, at least not to stay: I hope to persuade you otherwise but the voice of reason tells me you shan't be dissuaded. Your war has not concluded, you must see it to the bitter end: But what, pray tell, are the winning conditions?
Arthur Andreevich
So much you remind of the last Clinic Russian. The way you speak, the compassion you show, but there is something else under the layers of well-practiced etiquette and politesse. A longing regret when we speak of monsters, evident by the conviction in your voice. Monsters are subjective, I see this now. Monsters are subjective, and the difference between a monster and an idiot are rather slim. I don't believe you to be either. You are a man. Human. Rife with imperfections but a heart that aches for others and a mind that wishes to strive for a greater world. Do not let them take that away from you, that is when the real monster awakens. The beast we all have.
Inuk Kivioq
A worker worth some damn salt. Someone who takes initiative, gets things done without complaint. Half reminded of my myself a worker, working myself to the bone for a few coupons and to pull myself out of my slump. Your stature surely sets you back yet your results are far more promises thusfar then the rest of the lot. Toil on, maybe we can make something big out of you.
Amina Meziane
Someone not so different then I. Who does not desire to take up arms yet who is not so fond of the world we inhabit. Our meeting was practically that of chance, and our friendship has been catapulted forwards with otherworldly haste made possible by the circumstances we find ourselves intertwined in. So level-headed you carry yourself in conversation. Seldom is there any bitterness in your tone, nor malice. The words of a woman, unmarred by the State or by hatred. At first I thought I was done for. In my haste for answers in a time most vulnerable I laid all my problems bare with you to witness, nought has been shared and I have come to learn that perhaps you are more involved with the other side then I had initially expected. I hope that perhaps you too could come; it's hard to come across someone who doesn't spend every second of the day filled with hatred or sorrow. I need more positive people in my daily life.
Juniper Stenhouse
I am not ignorant to the desires at your heart. To what extent you've been truthful is beyond my purview but my doubts are many and your reassurances are water thin. The eagerness shines through like a great beacon, laying bare the self-interest in it all. I can't judge too greatly, my own pipedream is one motivated by greed. No, my real worry stems from what you might do should I fail to get you want you want. Our talks are pleasant but in truth we have not known one another for long. Do you actually care? Or are you just another in a long list of people hoping to exploit my vulnerabilities?
You're a piss poor manipulator but I don't believe you to be a necessarily bad person. If I've read you well, while your intentions may be self-interested, love is beautiful and one ought not pass judgement for actions such as yours committed in the name of love. Perhaps there is time for you, perhaps there is a place in this world for you- But they'll surely squash it all, eagerly and willfully. Stomp on your dreams, squat down, relieve themselves over it, set their dung pile on fire while you cry on the sidelines then force your face into it. I wish you luck in your endeavors, hope you all success, but the world you seek is one which you are either not made for just as I, or one you will thrive in and come to see the hollowness in it all. Only the truly sick can be so willingly a participant in such a totalitarian regime.
'Ludwig'
I had seen you once before. I do not know where, I do not know why-- the face, it is burned into my memory. Some disconnected thought never greatly pondered over until I find myself before you, speaking in hushed tones; urgent tones, desperate tones. A man so painfully simple in many regards you might think him inert, but no, that could not be any further from the truth. A Leader, so inconspicuous that it's no surprise he has lasted this long. Subtly is something many of your type lack, whilst you brandish it in droves. I don't even believe it to be an act, some blind shield of stoicism, with chest puffed to look imposing: No, simply a man driven by his morals and his heart. It is a shame I shall not get to know him more, come to know many of the people in this world so unfamiliar.
'Rook'
Friend of a friend, who holds said friend in a considerable degree of reverence. So much so they are willing to help me in whatever way they can. I can't say how you run your operation for I've yet to see any of it, but considering just how long you've been around without the halter put around your neck, you must run a solid ship. With your aid which you never falter to offer perhaps I can live with some degree of comfort in such turbulent times.
L'Aristocratie (Loyalist party)
Kevin Campbell
There is a special place in hell reserved for your ilk. I hope your arrival is speedy.
Gone. Good riddance.
Sven Aalto
An odd, perhaps foolhardy man who I have come to call a friend. Though I wish the best for him, I fear his incessant paranoia will extinguish all the joie de vivre he possessed when we first met, if it hasn’t already. I doubly fear his attempt to surround himself with those he trusts will result in them all going down with his sinking ship, a ship I have refused to board.
It's no secret you've taken a liking to me Sven, and while I am immensely flattered to the extent words cannot describe, I'm hesitant to embark on romance, as I have been for all my life. To say I'm scared would be an understatement, simply talking to people is horrifying enough. I do not wish to disappoint you, but I'm don't believe I'm quite ready for romance. Perhaps some other time.
The first man to ever confess his love for me lays dead, and a most stupid death at that. He could not die a hero, nor in a dignified manner. He leaves behind a handful of friends, who will most likely drink themselves until they forget his name. Varna claims another corpse, not the first, not the last. Your struggle is over, dearest Sven, and I hope now you may rest easy. There is no Union to keep you awake at night in death. Repos bien, mon petit soldat.
Damarco Hikins
An old friend, perhaps even the first man I met upon arrival, sharing the warmth of a fire barrel in the slums as a German woman regaled us with tall tales of the rampant prostitution in City 36. It is encouraging knowing my peers are mostly familiar faces, and you one of my bosses.
Deserters. Deserters-in-arms. How casually we fled from that assault, without a second thought. Our minds were both in tune, flee to the Neutral zone, ensure we escape prosecution, let the heat die down. It's good to know you aren't keen on blindly throwing yourself at suicide missions. I know not of your level of mistrust towards the Union, but it's clear that you Damarco hold some level of sanity, and thus by extension a level of trust.
John Walker
A regular at the Pint. I don't know where I met him, but he knows my name and I know his, even if I don't remember when and where I learned it. He seems nice enough from what few words we've exchanged, though watching him poison himself in the corner is a painful spectacle-- yet, were it not for my abhorrence towards alcohol, I could easily envision myself doing the same.
You are not the man I once knew. The Union has perverted you, taken your sorrow and given you false comforts so that they may better mold you into the ideal citizen. I had seen the signs coming but I had held hope that perhaps your prejudices were a simple act. You may still show kindness to I, but everytime I speak with you I feel as though I no longer speak with a friend, but a monster who has stolen his skin. Come to your senses, purge your mind of the lies they have so diligently spoon-fed you, and cut out those who have provided the meal directly.
Probably having a laugh at my expense as he pours himself another bitter drink of loneliness.
Perhaps you're not as bad as I had come to think. You have shown remorse. It is clear you do not enjoy what you are doing, perhaps even disagree finally. There are more steps to be taken however. You need to lose the woman and you need to dig yourself out of the little pit you've laid yourself out in. Your regrets will merely stew if you yourself do not take action. It is never too late.
Sally Peters
A hotheaded woman, who once possessed a passion for work, now turned alcoholic and liver destroyer. Though I would like to call her a friend, I feel like she views me as simply some fool to be toyed with and used as she pleases. Calling me a nervous bitch also won’t easily be forgotten, nor forgiven. Regardless, like a fool that she might consider me, I can’t help but be sympathetic
You've apologized for the previous blunder, and I like to believe you were honest about it. I've put a lot of faith in you by hiring you and already you've shown a few troubling signs, I only hope I can perhaps tame the beast before I have to do anything I won't want to. As long as she remains sober and willing to change, I believe I can make a model employee out of her, hopefully.
I want to believe you live, sincerely. But if you do, you are likely not in the city, and you will likely not be coming back to inform me how how you are. Though our first few encounters were hardly pleasant, I did dearly appreciate your company, as insufferable as I'm sure I was. Be safe, friend.
Alive and well, with job and lavish housing. You rose while I stagnated, thinking your corpse lie rotting in the bowels of the city. it's good to have you back.
Long gone is Akira, her fate unknown and left to speculation. In her absence, you have quickly usurped her title; Best friend. Not a day goes by where I do not beat myself over the fact that I will likely never seen her again, another figure lost to time, one who I cherished, laughed, shared secrets and cried with. It's been a trip, Sally and I. Though we have not slept on benches watching each other on shifts, nor did we sit inside the Pint and discuss how we planned to make the city a better place; I know I can rely on Sally, as she can rely in me. That level of trust, uncompromising trust, not built on self-preservation but through compassion and comradery, there is no sweeter taste. Should you falter, as will I, for we are team and we are in it together, hopefully to the end. Don't die, don't lie low; not without first letting me know. To lose another friend like you I'm not sure I'll recover.
Gone again, oncemore at a time when I need you most. I know it not intentional but why bother? I can't keep up alone.
Elias Siemens
A kind man who I have known longer than most. He has consistently shown compassion, and proven himself a humble man, leading a simple life while uplifting those around him. We seem to share a lot in common, both in interests, personal philosophy and values. I am happy to call him a friend.
As many of my friends make themselves scarce, you have always stuck around. I am blessed beyond what words can described, and forever thankful people can view me more than the stuttering idiot I see myself as. It's endearing, it inspires me to crawl out of bed no matter how much I desire to lay there until I grow cold, and my eyes glaze over.
My emotions got the best of me. I couldn't continue the line of work you thought I enjoyed. You probably think me the biggest idiot alive, and I am a little too apprehensive to test my theory.
As it turns out, there was no judgement passed, it's as if a day has not passed, although now Elias finds himself incredibly busy-- a repeating trend with many, hard to sit down and have a talk. It's good to know you live, the city would be far less tolerable without you.
I feel as though are friendship has grown cold. No longer is it Elias and Ophelie sitting under the stars, listening to the radio as we laugh together and share stories of old times, better and worst. Our interactions are often brief now, strictly cordial as if we're both wading through a minefield, nervous that the wrong word will see our legs mangled and bound to a wheelchair. I miss the old us, when work was more lenient and when we had less on our plates-- fewer responsibilities to bare.
They tell me you are an "Investigator", another watchful eye of the Union eager to crack down on those who willfully step off the path of conformity. Could our friendship be built on a mountain of lies? Surely this is only a recent development, and surely your morals are still intact. The Elias I know is not a race traitor.
For how long have you hid this? Am I truly *that* daft? Why is it it only truly kicks it when you speak with *her*. Clearly I'm a fucking fool. They should have shot me for that fact alone, spare the world from my severely stunted mental growth. Why are you so much better at this then I? I'm struggling to cope with this revelation.
Keep that bench warm, Elias. And the music on high. Let not the stars flee from the nightly sky, for in time I will join you again, and then shall we finally rejoice, unbound from the stresses of our toil and those who would seek to suppress us. Talk for hours, laugh for minutes straight. La vie est un beau rêve.
Jack Knight
An intimidating figure I once feared, no longer after having gotten to slowly know him through work. Though he may be stern I have come to see that much of the edge is simply the product of years of work. A finely sharpened blade ready to cut through whatever challenge is presented to it. I am thankful he takes interest in my political interests, even if he states the reason is simply "because he's bored"; a reasoning I am highly skeptical of.
Your relocation is utter bullshit and should be a great mark of shame for the Administration. The "failures" of the Workers Union are often outside of our own hands. Tell those on high to fuck off if their dates are so pressing, we can't work if a bomb goes off or if our materials are sabotaged because of the incompetency of another entirely different department. Mr. Knight, it was an honor to have served under you-- a compliment I can extend to few. You will go down as an arse in the hearts of many but you are one of few with a solid head on your shoulders and an aptitude for the job they gave you. I shudder when thinking who might come along to replace you.
Beauregard's words echo in my head. He is right, and I never had to look far.
Jenifer Maesroe
A longstanding friend who like many I can't entirely remember where we first met, perhaps the Pint. She has been of great help, offering me comforting when it was needed, and support when my foundation began to crumble. A great woman, through and through, much like me though without the stutter: Reserved, seemingly timid, not particularly the most outgoing when not amongst those she knows. Your kindheartedness often leads me to wonder how deep your loyalty for the Union goes: You are by no means a zealot, at least outwardly. I have never once heard you besmirch the Underclass, nor sing high praise for the Union outside of a quick 'glory'. Is simply being a good asset and an inoffensive person all it takes to ascend to the top? While I don't mean to discredit her, if that's all it takes I'm surprised the Union hasn't toppled over yet due to fringe elements injecting themselves into the system. Perhaps if they spent less time beating each other over the heads with rocks in the slums, we could already be living free of the Union.
Two-faced cunt, having me beaten for something entirely out of my control and then inviting me into your office in the same week with big smiles and soft tones, as if we were life-long friends having departed for a time. It has taken me long but I am coming to see the real Maesroe, the not-so innocent and manipulative string-puller. Your honeyed words are a façade and its clear to see how alluring they are to some, judging by how fiercely Walker clings to you as if you were his own Mother. Every time I am forced to interact with you I am conflicted-- What are you? What do you stand for? What is your endgoal? I might have it entirely wrong, but it's easier to assume you a demon then an angel.
Heinrich Tischer
Our first encounter eludes me wholly, though I remember a handful of encounters where you'd come to the Pint, probably amongst other staff, faces long forgotten and burned into memory as fading silhouettes. Are encounters are often brisk but always friendly. Alas, like many, I do not know the man on a deep or intimate level. I do not know where his loyalties lie, what he believes in, and as such am uncertain if I can believe in him. Trust in him.
They tell me you too are an "investigator", and one a little too eager to expose others for their innate needs and desires. How true these claims are I cannot say for certain but they do not bode well for my trust in the man.
Aleksandr Yurievich
At face value he seems to be a model citizen, well groomed, sharply pressed attired, and yielding a tepid temperament that screams of utter disinterest and at times contempt, while other times boldly egotistical when met with someone he doesn't much like at all. Whatever he is he seems more of what you'd expect then anyone else. Someone actually mildly competent at his job, unlike the rest of the cesspit. Mildly competent however only means he's mildly more dangerous then the rest.
Never before have I felt such joy, only to have it sudden quashed only mere moments afterwards. Waltman, his legacy torn asunder in one in fell swoop, broadcasted across District Eleven and perhaps beyond for all to hear, and all he ousted from the Party to be reinstated. Followed by a laundry list of names to be arrested, many of who I know and call friends: For whatever reason you had their executions planned and approved yet held back. Strange decision, this entire thing was a strange decision. What do you gain from doing any of this? A last laugh against Waltman? A debt to many? Some strange sense of self-satisfaction? I previously proclaimed you dangerous, and that fact certainly seems to hold strong.
Complacency and egocentrism are both things we preach against yet whenever I look upon that smug Slavic surface I see the two screaming back at me. Hypocrisy sits high on my list of things I despise yet with it being so commonplace in the Party I am slow to judge too harshly. We ought to sit down, face-to-face, without you looking down at me like some dog. Reserve the roles for once, have me criticizing every little aspect of how you carry yourself, the stain on your pants, the abnormally long strands of hair in your beard. Maybe with the ground leveled we could talk as if equals, or at least humans. Pry beneath the layers of narcissisms and see what makes the man tick.
CelalEscara
It's strange that in a society where the mentally unfit are expunged that a man who prances about with puppets is allowed a spot amongst the Party. Then again, Heartwick was a schizophrenic and Orwell is a raving manic. Your perplexing verbose words that border more on song then speech are nigh-nauseating to sift through and your commitment to the bizarre and eccentric never fails to leave me perplexed. Have you ever attended a workshift? Did you regale the foreman with your sock-with eyeholes-cut-out until he begrudgingly forked over enough credits? Perhaps someone higher, who's to say, but your politics I have failed to gleam anything coherent from. I much rather hold conversation with whoever sent me that letter in regards to your campaign more then yourself, seeing as they could actually articulate themselves in a manner not requiring me to have a dictionary on hand. In the end I haven't a clue where your interests like but I half-assume your tenure as District Administrator would have seen the halls of the Nexus turned into an art gallery, or something else silly, self-indulgent and wasteful.
LucaCarusso
Insanity runs rampant in the ranks of the party and you may be its next victim; or more likely this is a matter of nature and not nurture. You at times display empathy and at others a cold disregard for that which transpires before your own beady, strangely excitable eyes; like some child with his face glued to the window, staring gleefully at the wall of confectionaries whilst his mother fails to tug him along down the city sidewalk. What damage have you incurred? What tender part of your skull did they treplan to let you remain eternally jejune? The likes of Agatha and Orwell have surely perverted any chance at redemption, another victim of circumstances.
An idiot, but perhaps not a malicious one. I don't know. Don't really want to know. You're gone, probably going to stay gone, and whether you're tangled up in recent business or not will likely forever remain a mystery: I despise my ignorance, but perhaps in this case it is a strength.
You have a sickness. A sickness of the mind. One different from the one which the Ministry have diagnosed me with. Goodwill and empathy are both things you lack entirely, and anything you do that you delude yourself into believing is 'good' is entirely out of self interest, clamoring for crumbs of peoples attention you in reality abuse or doom them to an eternity of suffering against their own ailments and vices. You are a diseased dog, and I'm not so sure there is a cure to save you.
Olivier Fournier
Coworker, Countryman, Sweetheart of my friend who I so seldom see now. I cannot say we have ever properly have a chat, though interactions plenty. He too has had similar delusions as I, to inject myself in a place of power and poison the well like some cunning villain-- I am neither cunning nor much of a villain, and from my experience with Olivier, I don't wager he is either. They have already hurt you, do not give them reason to remove you from the picture for good.
Run off. They give us no information but the whispers have reached my ears down the grapevine. Fled with a Vortigaunt of all things, for what reason I know not. I hope Akira is taking it well. A la prochaine.
What they're doing is cruel. I don't know why we're doing this. Subterfuge I can support but when does one draw the line? Shoot those making demands, they're too proactive. Cull the effective and let the dulled and complacent take their place. We shouldn't be bending over backwards for deal brokers who'll simply cut tethers when we no longer hold use for them. Enemy's enemy is my friend and such.
Rhea Ilyava
Daggers and blades are that which most of our sex brandish within the Party, but neither you nor I am much like them: Strive to survive, not strive for the stars. I'm not certain how entrenched you are with McAllen's sidejobs and little escapades but I know two close confidants when I see them, and it's obviously no secret to any that you both are closely associated. Unleash hell on those who torment you, from either side of the coin. It's becoming clearer and clearer to me that words alone often cannot stop monsters.
You walk the streets, but you are not there. They have taken your thoughts and scattered them to the four winds. Your friends delude themselves in the belief that they can fix you, but my best guess is you are far beyond saving. The best we can do is ensure your new life is a safe and comfortable one.
I'm sorry. I know not if you're there but I'm sorry. You are not yourself but I'm sorry. No matter how hard I try my efforts only hurt others, and I too blind to realize until it is too late. I do not deserve an acceptance, but I'm sorry.
Lucas Van Der Linden
Kindness without strings is a rare trait held by few: Are you perhaps an exception? On multiple occasions you have showered me with kindness, try to comfort me when I seem down. Yet in this new age none can be certain. Many men have tried and succeeded in perverting me before, how can I be so certain you aren't amongst them? It would not be the first time a terrorist slips their way into the Party.
Fool. Talkative fool. Couldn't keep silence for five seconds to spare himself a beating and a fine. Had to wear his heart on his sleeve and argue against the hypocrisies of the Union. You're a Loyalist, surely you aren't so dull as to believe going against the mandate of those on high is a sage decision on one's part. Learn to fib instead of maintain and defend one's pride, so much trouble you will save yourself from.
Evelyn Mitchell
Wolf in sheep's clothes. Viper eager to strike. Flickering moments of compassion only to flip a coin and bare your fangs. A wildcard, knows her place in the great game, knows how to bend the rules or levy them to her advantage. Dangerous, you are dangerous. Your motivations elude me, your end goal an enigma. Your shield is rock solid and you hold it high like a badge of honor, happy in your surreptitious life of illusions, be them believed by yourself or not. I have been a victim to both your kindness and your wrath. Do you work for the people or do you work for yourself? Are you a monster or is it all an act?
Not even the Good Lord's son rose thrice from the dead. It seems a woman of your stature is able to shame the biblical legends of bygone eras. I won't press, my curiosity eats at my mind but these are topics we can explore once we are safe; truly safe. I have caused a lot of hurt, you have caused some in turn. None of it matters, we shall be survivors-in-arms, we shall cross the borderline, we shall live free or we shall die. May God grant mercy on us all for our transgressions, and the insults we have laid bare at his feet.
Karl Haussen
No façade, nothing to hide. Speaks my tongue and speaks his own, speaks it willfully. Thinks in it. Yet parrots the words of the Consul, as is his job. There's no blindfold over your eyes, you see the rampant retardation and you rebel against it in the most minor, inconsequential ways. Ways that should not be rebelling to begin with, a fact you surely know. Your goals are likely self-interested but a man not hellbent on so-called "Uniformity" whilst holding a position so important is greatly refreshing. I half enjoy our talks, half enjoy running errands for you. Very few who talk to be so bluntly, so raw and without filter. Take you any day over the likes of Yurievich.
Carter Bradley
A man of many faces, yet which one is his own? Proudly you'll decry my name then shower me with apologies after the fact. Our conversations are friendly and you oftentimes go out of your way to treat me as a friend-- You present yourself as such an upstanding Collaborator, should you not hate I? Should I not be the demon in the Party? The stray dog they keep around for God knows what purpose. I'm inclined to believe there is a good man under the act, just as Katherine is, but you need to drop the act. We are not on television, the microphones embedded in the walls cannot hear us should we speak in whispers. Polite society conversation I can enjoy but it is not real, there is no connection. There is no value.
Perhaps not quite friends, but few "acquaintance" in the Party have I ever particularly enjoyed the company of. Full of life behind that decaying face, or is it merely a corpse reanimated through images of a bygone era? I don't care to make the distinction, I sense a good man and I sense one starved for purpose, even with his work in the CDDE. You create, but you create merely a smokescreen. And like all smokescreens, it shall dissipate and then even you will be forced to look upon the destruction you have aided to bring about. I wish we could talk. I wish we could throw away the friendly pleasantries and get to that which is important. But you are far away-- Yet perhaps it is you, locked in the tower, not I. You strike me as the type who'd find the irony in such reserved roles funny.
Gendarmerie (Our Protectors)
C24:i3.JURY-2
Perhaps one of the few Officers of the Civil Protection I in good faith can say I trust. They have been nothing but friendly to me and my friends, as well as helpful when I needed their aid. He is also one of the few people who will entertain a conversation with me in my native tongue, which I don’t get to do nearly as much as I would enjoy. Though I may not know the man inside the suit, he gives me reason to believe that the Civil Protection can do good, despite its flaws.
The familiar radio plays no longer. Where has he gone? Slain in a shooting perhaps.
C24:i3.VICE-4
Crude Officer. Called me Mrs. Baguette and a disgrace to the people of France. If It's possible to avoid him, I will do so liberally.
Have not seen you in a long time. I'm content with keeping it that way.
Troy Knox(X-07)
You had the full opportunity to ruin what little of a meager life I have managed to create for myself here in City 24, yet you did not. For that, you have my thanks.
I enjoyed our conversation at the Pint, it was rather cathartic. Never have I before nor likely will I ever again let my guard down in front of an Officer as much as I did then. I only hope I don't come to regret my actions.
I never had much trouble identifying you before, but now I'm certain you're the one donning the blue epaulettes, and are also the only one I've ever seen with such an outfit. It's of some comfort, knowing that I can easily find you if need be.
You've quickly surpassed synth cop as my favorite. You may claim to be a bad man, but I sincerely believe that behind the mask, under all that shoe polish and kevlar, there is a man with great empathy not even he is aware of. I like to think that perhaps in a different world he would have dedicated himself to the betterment of society-- and perhaps he has in this one, though he is forced to also do the exact opposite, whether he likes it or not.
You live. You live, it's you, undoubtedly you. Long I had thought you had gone elsewhere, or had died, with the possibility of us crossing paths nigh-impossible. But you live, yet we could not speak for long, bittersweet au revoir. We'll meet again, we must.
So it wasn't you, I'm a fool. Had it been synthcop? I don't know, but I know for certain now that you live, that you're there, and that an honest man walks the streets. I need no further reassurances, my day has been made.
So dearly you wanted me to win that election, so that we could be together more: I lost, and now you have faded once more into the background. I think you're still around, an Officer keeps whispering boo in passing. Could be you. Could be another. I miss our conversations. Don't make me solely dependent on Arnold for a level-headed conversation.
Blue epaulettes once more. Congratulations on the promotion Officer, I hope that's not what's been keeping you away from me. Come find me more, its hard the other way around.
So effortlessly you pulled that trigger, only moments after whispering to him, some intimate last chatter akin to a nurse at the bedside of the terminally ill. You did not falter, you did not flinch. Justice dealt swift, justice dealt without thought and perhaps even without question. In truth, I find myself a little frightful of you. How eagerly would you do the same to me, should the order come from on high? Not something I like to think about, nor a situation I hope to ever transpire for both our sake. You tell me to keep following you, yet everyday you seem more and more distant. Still I follow, but how am I meant blindly to follow a man I cannot see. What end have you planned? When does it end?
Here I am, but where are you? My fingers have yet to touch a gun, and I hope to take you up on your promise-- a promise I shall accept from none other. Return, the company of those who watch out for me is appreciated but it is not you. They are not worthy substitutes. I await with great anticipation for the day I open my bag and find another cup of coffee has been planted on my person.
My bag sits cold and empty, and no longer does Blue-Epaulettes stroll the grounds with his freshly pressed uniform and polished jackboots. There is only grey and red, and they are all the same. Perhaps this hell they have spared you from, in which case I suppose I ought to be happy-- but without knowing whether you live or not, my heart will always hang heavy. Ignorant and oblivious are the greatest pains both you and the Union can inflict upon me.
I have committed the greatest of sins. He tells me I should think of what to tell you, but as I lie on the cold tiled floor, I see you standing over me, judge jury and executioner.
What have you done to me.
My game is foolish and it will likely see me and perhaps others killed, but I will play it to the end no matter the costs, for should things sway my way perhaps that vague desire for happiness will finally be met. I see it, I imagine it, but as of now it is not mine to take. The waters must be tested, lest the sharks come to feast. I wish we could talk again, face to face. Maybe we can soon, but my expectations are low.
Mystery Officer #2
Clad in black and kevlar, one who has been helpful to me so far-- saved me from a beating from the hands of those brutes; his peers, and earlier showed interest in my campaign, something few Officers ever bother care about unless its to insult me and demean me. Never before had I seen much in regards to corruption in City Twenty four-- that has since changed since my arrival here in District Eleven. First with your peers, an now yourself: Offering me services, to strike fear in my enemies, rough some people up, get people to do things for you. The offerings are appreciated but my campaign won't advance very far if rumors circulate about Officers colluding with me, beating my opponents to bloody pulps. Whether you actually subscribe to anything I believe or not is entirely beyond me, and for all I know you might simply be some plant, this being a test where you continuously meet me, try to get me to agree to more and more heinous things until you finally arrest me. You say you watch me, but I am returning the gaze.
XRAY-21
Faceless tyrant, yet one who may or may not be simply an avid participant in a totalitarian regime-- unless of course his word choice is all but conjecture aimed with having me spill all I know on he who he hates most. Your 'benign' reassurances I will not listen to, for you are no better then the ones you oppose: You too are fueled by self-interest, you simply pursue it through another form, that being through an Empire. I know not of the rewards which you reap, but the harvest often proves diverse. The worst is your accent makes you sound like him, even briefly thought you were while standing there, being all polite and having yet to cut to brass tacks. I wish I could look forwards to our next meeting, but I'm not expecting much good to come out of any of this.
A lifeless face stands over me, tells me hushed words, kind and soft, jams a needle through my skin. Tells me all will be fine. I drift off into a sea of nothingness. I wake and my arm itches, head swirls. I want to vomit but nothing surfaces. My reports amount to nothing. I am forced to endure this torment.
I see your face. There is no demon. There is a man, he is scared and he is regretful. He asks not forgiveness, only tells you he is sorry. Too foolish you are to curse him out, to decry his actions and declare him a monster: That would be too easy, you need make things hard for yourself. Your woes you unload on him, hope for the best, move on to the next man who beckons for your attention.
The Captain (JURY-181)
You say in the past we have spoken, yet when or where I cannot recall-- you never did go into detail. I know a good man when he speaks, a /human/. One who is not out of touch with others, retains the most basic traces of empathy even if often buried under mountains of equipment and Kevlar. If you are to kill me, at least I will die knowing my life was not claimed by a monster.
Mad hands grab at me. The words are spun with righteous intent but the searing pain renders me deaf to the world. There is only the pounding in my ears and the echoes of my screams, heard by none and cared by few. I cry for death but the option had been revoked the second I sat in that chair. How many times have you done this exact procedure?
Gerion Raath
I stand before a slab of marble, but it is I who is being sculpted and chiseled. Words carried with neither passion nor joy. You eat, sleep and shit with one sole purpose in mind as it seems. You and I are both dogs, but you aid in herding the sheep. You are well trained and undoubtedly neutered, no time for personal frivolities: Only the constant advancement of a machine so incomprehensible in scale you cannot see the very gears which you turn. All dogs want something in the end however; what is it you want? What are they holding against you to make you perform so effectively?
City Administration
(Those who rule with iron fist) LaurentisHeartwick
Our Administrator. I do not know him personally. I have never met him personally. I do not want to meet him personally. All who talk to him tout him as a madman and a zealot, and such a description seems apt. A man who supposedly hates those beneath him-- how is a man who hates his subjects fit to rule? But then again, perhaps that is the perfect candidate the Union needs to further their goals. Goals which do not benefit me nor the people around me.
After digging around, Var Ras has informed me that you were indeed present for the burning of the homeless shelter, donning a gas mask because you dare not breath the same air as us, as if we are all pox-carrying plaguebearers. You are repugnant. It is a shame that the same cannot be done to you as was done to Louis XVI, a fitting fate for evil such as yourself
Espèce de merde
Koshida Oda
The era of Heartwick has concluded, and a new despot has come to take his throne. An Asiatic emperor from far off lands-- already I like him. Our interactions have been brief, but his demeanor is simple, the man almost reserved, but what little I have gleamed from him proves promising: so eagerly admitting his dislike for 'republicians', the Old Guard. His decrying of Heartwick in public, his trust placed in me despite the slander and sedition, the liaising with Thirteen. Finally, a man who seeks to get to work, to bring about productive and progressive change. Yet, do his loyalties truly align with the people? Does he desire to ease the conditions of their life or is this another political game? There in your sitting room you gave me insight in this little world we now have to share, of the factions cropped up in your Administration, and how to remove them would be far from prudent. Please, do not be like the last, nor like the imbeciles you let continue to hold their posts. The delusions come from on high and can only be uprooted from on higher.
Bernard Mulligan
Though I may not support the institution you work for and dedicate yourself to, in my experience Mister Mulligan has been nothing but kind and gentlemanly. If I were able to get to know you, I like to think maybe you would agree on some of my philosophies, yet these thoughts are but mere daydreams, for despite your kind exterior, I have need see the man inside, and to put blind faith in a man such as he is a dangerous endeavor.
ZoeyGrodno
The woman who has given me a chance to work with little question except for my name and CID. She has given me an opportunity that I will be eternally grateful for. Though working at the Pint may not be the most exciting, nor fulfilling, I no longer have to sleep in the slums, nor in a cot in the back of the kitchen which she so graciously allowed me to use. I would like to call her a friend, though I'm afraid I don't really know her all that well to say so in good confidence.
Gone. Maybe off on future endeavors, I don't know. Too full of life and ambition to die young.
If you were still around, what would you think of me? Positively, I hope. Come back some day, I'd love to recollect, maybe show you that letter you sent me all that time ago I still foolishly cling onto like some lovesick sweetheart.
I lost the letter.
Your Whore lays battered and bruised, sullen and tear-eyed. She has done things you would have never expected her to. I would hate for you to see what has become of me.
IanDarwin
A man with what I can only describe to be a very thin façade of personality. What some might see as a kind exterior I view as a shield to the real person inside, I have met many of their ilk and he strikes me as no different. Perhaps with time my perception of him could change, but unfortunately I doubt I'll be given much of a chance to get to know him anymore then I did during my time during Who Wants To Be A Collaborator. I'm also quite certain parts of that show were rigged, I vaguely remember one of the staff saying how Mister Waltman was innocent despite them having dragged him off to a cozy cell. It may be entertainment but I see it only as some freakshow circus, for the elite to laugh amongst each other at.
Gone? I don't know, have not heard his name since Who Wants To Be A Collaborator.
Felix Waltman
To think the man I once felt sympathy for as an Officer bludgeoned him on live television is now my political opponent. He won, naturally, and all of his groupies make sure to remind me of my loss. At least the man himself is somewhat tolerable in comparison, though his brusqueness and uncaringness when speaking to me is hard not to notice: friendliness clearly doesn't make the dog bark, only money and power. I hope through the Legislative Assembly I can at least help sway him to benefit my goals, rather then drown himself in booze or whatever other vice he probably fancies.
As it turns out; Waltman doesn't drink, and perhaps my initial thoughts on him were marred by my eagerness to see myself in office. What I initially perceived as indifference or disinterest has since changed to that indistinguishable quality most of the city hold; a sort of jadedness, where behind the mold the human form lies buried under layers of woe and melancholy. Though I still don't know the man all that well, he's gone out of his way to be kind not only to myself but many others. It's refreshing I suppose, to see someone use his position to help others; something that I had set out to do and was mostly unsuccessful. Hopefully as time passes, I too will be influential enough to really get people that which they need to live comfortably. Keep up the good work, Mr. Waltman. I'm pleasantly surprised thus far.
Fucking lapdog who parrots the same vitriolic garbage from the very top no matter how great the hypocrisy. The excuse of "my boss" will only garner you so much of my sympathy, and in this instance has garnered little to none. What purpose does my membership in the party serve if I cannot help. The telescreens boast proudly of how we must throw away our egocentric and selfish desires whilst we simultaneously benefit only ourselves and shoot up on fucking drugs. The Administraion is wholly correct when decrying the bombing of the RDT as barbaric, they should shoot higher. Blow the entire administration wing of the Nexus, see how fast things improve. To hell with these old world plutocrats and their manic beliefs of shooting and abandoning those of our society who have yet to even place their hand on the ladder. Is that really what our Benefactors desire? A society where we cannot even prove our loyalty, because the ones who already have have condemned us to death, to serve as their 'bulwark' when there are threats that harm the very fabric of their shallow world of plastic luxuries? For almost a year I have played a fools fucking game, living in a fantasy world where I believed that once at the top one could change things, bring about a better future where one at least has the chance to be happy and retain their sanity. The only thing I have particularly learned from my time at the top is that the Universal Union is not the Bulwark we think it is. They would not send citizens to fight antlions with tools they have to confiscate from the Warehouse if such were the case. They are like any other force: deeply flawed. A house of cards, waiting for the right man, woman or group to knock it all down.
I forgive you. I forgive you for everything. I understand what it's like to live with the looming threat of death.
AgathaWolstenholme
To think Elias once encouraged we meet thanks to our shared interest in cooking. Far you have risen since then, and quick your mind has deteriorated-- Mere assumption on my part, perhaps it was lost all along. I know not what I did to upset you, perhaps refusing your drugs, perhaps calling you a bitch after the fact in a moment of vulnerability, both maybe. You're a sick woman, perfect example of the rot that infests the City, a woman guided by blind hate. Our hostilities may have reached a detente but I don't expect that to last, and supposedly both you and Orwell scheme in the background, scheme of my 'social downfall'. Real? I know not, but it would not surprise me given your interactions.
BenjaminOrwell
The Orchestrator and Grand Chef of this unending Anti-French mania as far as I'm aware. Fitting that a schizophrenic would elect a man who takes an aneurysm over the fact someone he so blindly hates thanks only to their nationality is granted a modicum of power in the Administration he serves, as a Minister. The man was reasonable enough when we first met, all that time back in Forty-three during the food crisis, though clearly work and the drugs he so liberally shoots into his thinning veins has sent him into freefall. You are a danger to yourself and a danger to the people of the City, yet the man who could bring change does not. He hesitates, says the politics of it all would wreck mayham on the City, on his Administration. I do not want to quarrel but you are beyond reason and the best course of action is to likely see you catapulted into the sun. At least there, there will be none for you to harm thanks to your senseless paranoia.
Edward Riggs
Imbecile so bold-facedly tells me, in private and in good confidence that he is insane. For all I am concerned Mr. Riggs is the only man left within Koshido's Administration not fueled by a lust for blood and sufferance. Never have I seen him cross, never have I seen him be cruel. His department may facilitate the live execution of State enemies but it is surely not him who has willed it. Through that polite exterior there is a man, perhaps broken and perhaps downtrodden, but a man worth salt and a man who could and can do great things. You may remain in District Eleven but I pray for you; take heart in what I said. You alone could do so much good for the City.
L'inconnu
(Those not so easily defined) Tyrant
Such grace and venerability through seer stature alone, towering over mortals with ease and style, comfortable in a body many would think grotesque. Our meeting was accidental, a chance of fate, yet I left it feeling more knowledgeable of the world we inhabit, one wholly different to that which my parents had the pleasure and joy of experiencing, free of aliens and the Union. Though his tone be cold and demanding of respect, his hospitality leads me to believe he is perhaps capable of compassion. His end goal eludes me, but thusfar has seemingly spread chaos throughout the many stations of the metro. Poor William has died through his association to your cause, so I hope it is certainly a worthwhile one.
'Kurt'
Another follower of the Tyrant, clad in armor and a gasmask to shield his true face. Most interesting: A man who has seen into the vortessence, and has been proclaimed kin. His demeanor much like the being his followed has thusfar felt cold as well as mistrusting-- his dislike for I and the others of the Union Station was practically palpable, but he granted us a modicum of trust and did not simply shoot us. Worry not, your trust shan't be abused by I.
Mysterious man
I, Ophélie Latourelle, have committed the greatest sin of them all. I have committed Treason against the Union. I have participated in organized sabotage, broken-and-enterd, stolen, and I have disposed of evidence for a man who refuses to even outline his cause, a cause I find myself blindly following for a reason I myself cannot even pinpoint. Greed? Justice? The need for excitement? None sound apt. I do not know what you are, but you are clearly not human, it's simply not possible. Arriving and appearing at the most unlikely of spots, at the most unlikely of times, knowing much more about us then the average man could ever, and the whispers that assail me-- I am not insane, I refuse to consider it as an option. My sanity is intact, and you are some corporal demon I have been swayed to follow blindly, to eat from the fruit of knowledge the Union has for so long preached against. You will get me killed, it is only a matter of time. But I still go on. Now I ask myself a question I ask many others: To what end?
In secret, I yearn for your return. My ire grows great and my desire to see tangible results for my actions grows with it. I no longer wish to watch the world burn with a gun to the back of my head.
Where have you gone, my gasmasked friend? Long has life been devoid of your lurking presence. No word of you ever reaches my ears, you never grace me with your uninvited visits, and since the antlions you never managed to crop up in my daily life. Have you died? Your associates forced you elsewhere? With every day that passes I feel regret in knowing Sally chased you away. Alone I can do little to help, but perhaps with you we could have truly made a difference, least I hope. Come back, I still wish to learn that which drives you. I want to stop the world from burning.
The Benefactors
Figures so elusive one must question whether they truly exist. Whether the tenants their subjects parrot are truly theirs or only falsehoods of their own. I don't know. I have seen you, but it is not you. Vague images and notions so beautiful that upon that cold slab I sobbed as if all my actions were a knife of its own, driven so deep I wept only further when it was clear that the job would not be finished. Why have I been granted a mercy many others were waved? Why do we suffer so greatly at the hands of your subjects? This is not Unity, there is no amount of mind block to convince me otherwise, it is delusion. We are working backwards. Are you blind to the injustices carried out? Are you even there to watch as we wilt and slowly fade away while the stars in the early morning sky? I don't know if I want to meet you, I don't know if I can handle the idea that you are what they have painted you to be. There is no utility of killing us. Only humanity, in their backwards way and incessant greed, could carry out such atrocities.
In my sleep you are there. In my waking moments you are never far. In my decisions you watch over me. You are the unmovable force I cannot evade, the bug which I cannot squash. You cry for reverence, and I must give it but its not real and I know it to be so. The pains that haunt me are from your subjects, my abuse for your puppets, and yet even broken and beaten you are not content: I must kneel unconditionally or I must die. It will not be had; can't be had. No amount of conditioning will truly warp me, for I am human. I retain my humanity. I have worked for you and been complicit in your puppet government but I have never abandoned my humanity. Now you wish to take it, but your puppets are incompetent and most concerningly, aware of their own incompetence. They will not take my humanity, but they may take my life. They will. It's only a matter of time. The halter has been oncemore been donned and I feel its coarse fibers tightening around the tender flesh of my neck.
L'idiote
(The self)
Ophélie Eulalie Latourelle
Tossed out from your shared one bedroom flat and thrusted into a world Father dearest had not prepared you for, one cold and uncaring. You stutter through conversation and cower at the slightest of pressure, snivel at any obstacle. Your goals are few and all seem distant. The names you recognize you can count on one hand. The contents of your pockets so scant you sleep under bus stops with the one woman you've come to call a friend, changing guard bihourly making sure none come to steal from you. There is no pride in this life, it is killing you, sapping what little drive pushes you on. The torch dims, and you dim with it. Few cheer you on.
Many faces you come to meet, some kind and some cruel. You grow to enjoy a few, come to love one. They do not last for long. You cry long into the night.
A woman takes pity on you, showers you with pleasant words and warm smiles, standing no taller then yourself but donned in a suit of brilliant white befitting a monarch, exuding unwavering confidence with every meticulously-practiced step taken. Lured in with the promise of steady pay and work, you heed her calls and find yourself a bartendress at the finest establish the city has to offer, with a cast of characters you call your colleagues. You stammer, you slip, you spill, but you find purpose and through purpose a faint glimmer of hope, of happiness, a faint light at the end of the tunnel begging to be snuffed out.
Your mentor has flown the nest, moved on to her next venture, and you have taken her prior mantle. At your disposal is a handful of staff, and in your bag is a device entrusted in your possession. You do not wear a suit however, you are not rich and your possessions are few. Restlessly you toil, through day and through night, the hours long and grueling, callouses forming on your once fair and dainty hands. Your results are scant. Business slows, the City offers you neither support nor love. The faces you once know grow cold and distant, and once again you feel alone in world most alien. Before long, the doors to the castle you had inherited cease to open. You retreat to your place of solitude, mull over your regrets, of your time wasted and of the you have failed to uplift. Self-destructive ideals sink their cruel jaws into your mind, plaguing you long into the lonely and merciless nights.
Defeated, hungry and wilted, you emerge from your lodging after a long fought battle with none other then yourself. Had not the ability to put an end to it all, could not bring yourself to do the same others before you had done. Though you have stagnated the world around you has soldiered on, friends once thought dead walk the streets, with well-endowed pockets and fancy clothes you yourself have never had the opportunity to touch asides from sales. Though your heart hangs heavy, you let not the call lure you back into bed. You foolishly refuse to go gently into that good night.
Again you find yourselves sleeping on benches. The cold spring air bites at your skin and the ends of your coveted orangey hair grow dull in color. Your friend arranges you an interview, and before you know it you're subjecting yourself to labor you thought better left to the men of the District. Before long, it is you at the command, organizing labor you once fought to partake in.
Men clamor to proclaim their love for you, but like the last you must frown and let them down. Your heart is taken but you refuse to admit it.
You throw yourselves at the games of men smarter and more cunning then yourselves, you plaster your likeliness and promises liberally across the City. You strive for purpose, you strive for change. The once nervous girl presents herself amongst a crowd of onlookers, flanked by her fellow opponents, and sings to the masses her desires and beliefs. Inside, she is screaming. Your battle bares no fruit, but you find yourself a seat in the Ivory tower, foolishly believing that you can bring about a brighter future.
No district Administrator you may be, you forge on. Work never fails to fall in your lap, so you keep yourself busy. Your connections bolster, your friend circle widens. You are wanted and sought out, you find yourself invited to parties and dinners. The introvert slowly breaks away from her shell, but social contact alone will not free her from her cage. Through the course of time relations grow stale and you see the rot that permeates this world, the drugs and the frivolities while people much like your old self starve and die in abysmal conditions. You lobby against it, but the hand that feeds bites back. You are stripped of your standing and cast back into your world. Young woman against world, unprotected from the abuses from on high. The uncaring smiles from the Suits as they beat you still come to wake you in the night.
Geneva lays burning, Districts toppling one after the other, and you continue to rise, to go to work despite the worsening situation. You have friends, people who rely on you. Your desire to rest is great but your desire to improve is greater. Long hours you work, under harsh abuse and harsher conditions, acquainting yourself more and more with the clinic staff with each subsequent visit. Burns, shrapnel, gunshot wounds-- injuries that would once disable you for days, leave you shocked for minutes. Your will is like iron and your resolve holds firm. You bleed pure passion even through the hate thrown your way. Yet still, you are scared.
Your place of work lays in ruin and your friends retreat for their safe havens as the final battle grows near. Valiantly you throw yourself at the enemy, but their numbers and their pincers prove too much, cutting through your resolve like hot steel through butter. They cut at your once clean and unmarred skin, leaving deep incisions and tearing your belongings to shreds. It is only through the efforts of an unknown that you are saved. You live thanks to another, yet you know not who. When the evacuation is called, you throw yourself at it headlong, nearly losing yourself in your haste for the Metro tunnels-- a place previously discussed with others: Your plan Z.
The warm tendrils of the sun have long faded. Lost and afraid, you wander through ancient and forgotten corridors submerged in inky blackness, accompanied only by the haste of your breath and the skitter of rats-- the Caravan has gone forwards without you. Your pace never falters, you keep moving, and eventually stand upon the gates of your new home in the Geneva metro. You find some friends, but many remain missing.
The atmosphere is to your liking. So casually you now brandish your native tongue in front of men once eager to see you hang for it. There is freedom in your isolation. Not isolation from people but from the world beyond. You are free from the greater Union. With friends you venture out, carve your path through the underground labyrinth you quickly come to call home, mastering its tunnels with great familiarity. The world above is quickly forgotten, relishing in a world where one can forge their own path should they so choose. Nothing stops you from leaving. You mingle with the Insurgents, with the Traders and the Tyrant. You are unstoppable. You have never been so free.
The call is made. Blinding lights assail your weary eyes as the sun kisses your skin for the first time in weeks. The vacation has concluded and work must resume. Eagerly you throw your hat in the ring and plaster your face across the new district much as you had once before, spreading your gospel and winning hearts and minds. Your enemies grow in numbers, embittered by your success and hellbent on your downfall-- narrowly avoided, your unintentional savior clearing you of crimes you had not committed. Atop crates you stand, brandishing papers emblazoned with your promises. And on that day you stand before not only before the Administrator, but a crowd of decriers eager to contest your victory. Their pleas fall on deaf ears, your inauguration is made swift and you are granted a position you had fought so fiercely for before.
Your greatest success bares few fruit and the corners of your confinement prove much tighter then hoped. You scramble through the profligate politics and alas make nothing of it all-- The City is no different, your achievements are nil and that which you fight for is scarcely remembered, a fleeting thought in the minds of those who supported you and a jeer for those not so keen of you. Only a homeless shelter is left as proof of your passion, only for those who could enjoy it to be all cast to the industrial hellscape, you amongst them.
You are in over your head. Like a naïve girl fueled by her ennui you throw yourself at a world you had only once dipped your toes in. A world of hushed whispers and paranoiac glances. You are among the few brave enough or foolish enough to battle the establishment, but no sword do you carry. Your part is insignificant. You are a mere asset to their cause you have so openly allowed yourself to be swayed into, abandoning past ideals in the pursuit of a fever dream. They speak your name liberally against your wishes, and with one slip comes one that comprises you: You cannot outwit their questions and you do not have a capsule to stick in your mouth. You are the dead, died before you even began.
Something is deeply wrong. Grossly incorrect. Showing its contempt for the natural order of things. The faces of old friends make your world spins, gut wretches, face goes pale. You hear their voices in the wind, on the tele, in your sleep. They call for you, like master for its dog. A conditioning you do not understand and do not possess the capacities to fight. You have been tampered with: Defective product corrected in accordance with policy. Ideations you swore to purge from your mind invite themselves to the forefront, yet not even those do you possess the drive to act on them. There will be no going gently into that good night.
External forces pick away at that which holds you compliant and malleable to the wills of men who seek to strip you of yours, and a freak incident would see the cornerstone of their lies thrown to the wall and tossed to the four winds: Your memories are your own, but you are now privy to the deviations: Alterations, fabrications and other perversions inseparable from all that was real. You cannot stay. They will know that you have seen through the smoke and mirrors. They will not grant you a second mercy.
Some would call you a snake, a turncoat, a Tallyrand, a traitor. They despise you and half of them you have barely had the opportunity to speak with you outside of mere pleasantries. Why should their words weight on your consciousness? You have only ever tried to do good, yet your actions have caused untold harm onto yourself and many others. Your friends are dead or routed, your future is grim, your memory bound to be eradicated and relegated to the annals of time.
Combine Civil Administration
Your purpose is to serve the Union, not the people. While you may at times do things that aid the everyman, you do it only when it serves the interests of our Benefactors.
War mongering elitist in their ivory towers playing a game of chess outsiders like myself cannot comprehend. To what ends must we suffer for whatever petty victory you so desperately desire?
There have been many before you and there will be many after you. You stand upon a loose foundation forcefully driven into the earth without proper regard for the mortar that holds the stones strong. Why would anyone bother work in your interests if your stance is staunchly to leave them to die? Nothing good has ever come from you, the hypocrisy you spew over the Telescreens is sickening. A disgusting charade of working towards the future when it is only the future of the self, of those at the top. A la lanterne.
Ministry of Commerce
Den of conniving and worthless fucks with no greater purpose then to decide whether the new arrival can afford a can of water or not. I cannot think of a greater example of everything that is wrong with City 24 and its governance. Rich and affluent, with no real skill other then to stomp on those beneath you for asinine and backwater beliefs born out of a place of utter ignorance. Like those who let you stampede on the Everyman your reign of terror will eventually come to an end, and then you will all have to face the weight of your crimes. Pourrir.
SecurityCouncil
Slow to act, ineffective, inefficient, and fixated on nonsensical affairs that matter little and help no one. What could be a force of good is mostly stagnant grace to the many members within it, who rather focus on playing a competition of who is the better collaborator, rather then improving life in the city. Even Zoey, who I respect, strikes me as someone who might be reluctant to shoot down all of these displays of stupidity and move onto issues of actual concern.
Another stepping stone in the entirely useless bureaucratic process that likely exists as some legal showing to dismiss any policies the Civil Administration finds to go against their wishes. Burn it all down.
Coles Homeless Shelter
The place I called home for my first week or so in the city. I greatly respect what they’re doing, so much so that I go out of my way to donate food now that I’m rather well off, I only hope this food doesn’t fall into the hand of terrorists.
Gone, just like every owner that tried to keep it afloat. I am unsure what's scarier: the thought new arrivals like I once was will have no roof over their head, or the fact everyone has already forgotten they exist.
Civil Workers Union
They provide work for the citizenry, yet for my first week they hardly ever had enough work for the eager masses, myself included.
Civil Medical Union
My feelings on the clinic are mixed, moreso out of simple ignorance more than anything. I know little of the people who work there, but they have saved lives in the past, and have even patched me up after a work incident.
Civil Protection
There are good men and women amongst your ranks, no doubt about it, but they are a minority. The power hungry and overzealous everyman flock to join your ranks, and too often they are allowed to abuse the citizenry without recourse.
Recently you have all been on a frenzy. Eight of your Officers have attacked a friend and her employee unprovoked. My friend had to spend the night in the clinic because of their actions. Greatest of all apparently now Officers aided the Constabulary with burning down the shelter. I am still of the belief that there are good men amongst you, but those who are not are truly wicked, they do not deserve to be called Protectors.
The hangman has come, but like steak I must marinate.
Overwatch Transhumanist Arm
Robotic soldiers armed with the finest weaponry the Union has to offer. Their cold and lifeless demeanor makes the hairs on my neck stand on end, yet despite it they have for the most part been far more cordial then some of the Civil Protection Officers. Regardless, I fear them, as should anyone else. The large alien guns and black steely armor send a clear message: Cold killers, who will fire indiscriminately when ordered without ever flinching. God have mercy on those who have to stare down the barrels of their guns.
As my experience with you grows, so does my confusion: lifeless soldiers, yet sometimes you can pry past the mindblock and the cybernetics, catch glimpses of humanity their hardware fails to suppress. What are you? Are you truly lifeless, or trapped in a mind you no longer recognize?
Department Of Business
Though I don’t fully understand your purpose, you provide job opportunities for hard working citizens, including myself, and have allowed me to rise from a state of utter poverty, as well as my friend.
My old friend. It's good to see you, even if none of the faces are particularly familiar.
The old you is long gone. And as I lay sleepless on this cold concrete floor, I find myself yearning for the simpler times. I miss you, I miss Grodno, I miss Var'ras, I miss Mulligan coming to the Pint, I miss Ophélie and Elias talking in the library. There was freedom in the lack of responsibility.
The Civic Alliance
I deeply believe this could be a source of good, though I fear the status of its members may serve to delegitimize it. I may not be one for politics, but I trust Akira to make something worthwhile.
Your leader is absence, and the age of politics have passed. Union mandate is all that will now be tolerated. You will live on in the minds of few, and be quickly forgotten. Rest well.
Resistance
Though your cause may be noble, your methods are not. Bombing buildings and putting the lives of innocents at risks is not a cause I in good faith can support. The Union is here to stay, whether we like them or not, and I’m not sure if the ends justify the means.
As time passes I find myself more and more sympathetic to your cause, but your methods aid none. All roads lead to many dead.
Violence begets violence; a lesson I have tried to teach the top yet perhaps it is better suited for those at the bottom. The Universal Union will never relent, but the Civil Administration is lazy and indolent. Give them reason to believe you are dead, let them think they have won. Your sheer persistence forces them to act against you. You could all complete so much more if you simply acted covertly. Bring everything down from the inside rather then taking potshots at the first Officer you see, or plunging a knife into the first person with a fancy suit.
Foolishly I thought perhaps there were good men amongst you as I do any other groups. Men lay dead, I am a willing accomplice. There is no recovery from this.
Two forces play tug-of-war with my mind, and you currently are winning by a narrow margin.
Geneva Constabulary Force
A mob of sharply dressed, legally-sanctioned thugs hellbent on spitting on those beneath them. They are self-serving and care nothing for the layman. I doubt they even care for the Union either, only to inflate their egos and whatever they consider “Civilized” society. On more than one occasion they have followed me around, harassed me and tried to get me in trouble at work. I detest them and everything they stand for. May the ground open up at their feet and swallow them whole.
You burned down the homeless shelter. I refuse to believe it was the Officers idea, you are surely at fault. You have endangered the lives of countless people, none of whom are a threat to you, but only a threat to your inflated egos. Someone ought to burn your homes down, scum. There is no justice in the world.
Gone alongside your circus masters, good riddance.
24th MilitantArm-Arteria
Another army built upon the backs of young men, eager to lay down their lives for a cause greater then them-- a cause they are often too blind to see is stupid. Just as the great General Napoleon once sent young men to die for his mighty Empire, the Union will do the same. The men within your ranks may be good at heart, but they are under the command of the union, and will serve their interests lest they face punishment. La rue a l'enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions. Je vous souhaite la bonne chance et que dieu vous ramène vivant.
The Vanguards
A new interest group in the city, with fluid ideas as of now that will surely shift as time passes. In their current state I see nothing too jarring, though the "Destruction of and and all insurgents" and praising Overwatch leaves me a little hesitant to lend them my support. At least they are not like the overindulgent who reside in the Party or government. They are people, hard workers, the people who I find myself relating to much more then those in suits.
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