The Chaos Number - Origin of the Gulag Plague

[Jsc]

*ooc: this non-canon thread*​

The Void - Netherworld
New Years Day - 852 ABY

The Void was a space beyond the river. A place unprepared for the explorations of men. A deep pocket of the Netherworld of the Force. Home to the spirits of the unrighteous dead. An eternal badland of curses and mourning. Without sound. Without temperature. Without touch. It was a place she had been only once before.

Karen Roberts sat beside the etheral green fire. Garbed in rags. Grant Pherson sat beside her. Clothed in dead leathers. Both watching the pair who sat opposite them at the campfire. Their faces shadowed by the green flickering flames. One was named Att. An inhumanly tall, voice-less, gray skinned telepath. A Navigator from a nameless alien race from beyond the Outer Rim. An Attendant and a Planeswalker were his titles. And he too was garbed in the torn red skin of Hel's daemon cloth. His fiercely intelligence eyes remained locked, squarely, on the blue skinned man who sat next to him. All four of them. Now together at last. Silent as the Void. Watching the flames bitter greenly glow.

"You." Karen's strong voice broke the silence, "You were with the team that found Omni. On Csilla. You were the one who talked with the machine."

The silence was broken yet no eyes deviated from the blue skinned man's dark hood. Hiding his long grey hair. Letting only his dark red eyes stare back at them from across the fire.

"Ah." The enigma smiled. "Yes. Of course. You came to speak with the dead. Mmm. Even brought a Navigator with you to bridge the gap. Lead you through the desert of the dead. On instinct. Maybe even. On a prayer. ...Heh. Yet. You could not have found me without even more help than this. Could you?"

Karen knew of what he spoke. The Journal. With one page torn out.

"Heh. How is the little green runt hmm?" The blue skinned man smiled.

"He's dead." Grant frowned. Ice in his voice.

"Ah. Pity. I had hoped it would be he, who would dare to unshackle me from this gods forsaken place."

A moment of silence. Then the Chiss spoke again.

"I am dead. Yes. Slain. Banished. Lost to this place and to my time. To await my spirit's final judgement, I suppose. For all my sins. For all my triumphs. For her. For Csilla."

"Zero."

Karen blurted out.

"Yes." He replied with deep red eyes, "My name. My own, long lost name. Ah. But how long since I had remembered it. You don't need names here, you know. They are usually the first things this place takes from you. But they are never the last."

"And the virus." Grant soured, "Do you remember that too."

"Yes."

He paused. His voice almost snapping. Hesitating for only a moment a look over at the tall, towering Attendant. Sitting silently beside him. Then, slowly returning his hooded gaze back to the two humans. Sitting in tatters beyond the flame.

"I suppose you'd like to know how it all started? Yes? Or maybe... You'd like to know why?"

Karen and Grant nodded. The towering Attendant slowly did the same.

"Then. I shall tell you." The tension in the blue skinned hermit's voice slowly relented. His dark hands trembling to move. Slowly pulling off his hood and revealing his sunken, leathery, and tormented face. The face of a monster.

"Ah. And where is any good story to begin. But at the beginning."


* * * * *

*ooc: this non-canon thread and is all that remains of a first draft for a galactic event I was planning on hosting here on Chaos. An event which would tell the story of Zero. The man who unleashed the Gulag Plague and brought about the end of the world. The beginning of our unique Chaos timeline. What follows is the short story of a powerful, yet xenophobic Chiss Empire struggling to adapt to a modern age of political and economic dominance by a new Galactic Alliance, it's Yuuzhan Vong planet builders, and an artificial God named Omni.

So if you'd like. Pull up a chair. Take a seat by the ethereal green fires of Hel and pull out some of Satan's finest weenie roasters. Because tonight we're making camp under the canvasing black emptiness of the Void. Just talking to the dead and loving every minute of it. ...Who knows? You might even make it back to real space this time.

Maybe.

 

[Jsc]

*ooc: this non-canon thread*​

The Department of Reconstruction - Csilla
The Last Calendar Month - 424 ABY

The green fire fades and your vision is reborn.

You awaken in a clean white boardroom. Your body is not your own. Your voice, is not your own. Even your gender might have changed. Man to woman. Woman to man. Outside, just before you get to the grand vista of the planet Csilla's glorious afternoon cityscapes. Lies your reflection. Your skin is blue. Your eyes, orbs of red. Your hair is the dark black mass of noble Chiss decent. You wear the white gown of a scientist. A scholar. Perhaps even a technical specialist of this craft. All around you are the distraught and surprised faces of those who came with you from Hel. All Chiss. All with new bodies of their own. You are all. Reborn.

"Mark!"

Yells a woman from outside the glass windows of the room. A young Chiss male barges into the boardroom. His white gown is adorned with golden shoulders and the silver chain. The mark of a Director. The mark of someone in charge.

"Mark wait!"

Behind him comes another woman. Her skin a lighter blue than his. Her cheeks aflame much like her eyes. She keeps her hair in a tight bun. Reserved and postured. How very much unlike her unhinged and passionate voice now.

"Damn it Mark. Why?"

"Because Rachael! Because!"

He is almost screaming. You know this is wrong. Chiss don't scream. Chiss are composed. Chiss are reserved. Just like you. It is why you are silent. It is why the whole room is silent. It is why you are also even more surprised and aware than you where when you first woke up to this... this... Nightmare.

"Did you see who else was in that room! Did you see who Dross choose to head the project! Sharuu! They chose Sharuu, Racheal! The Ministers choose a Vong!"

"Damn it Mark. Look around you. Calm down. Do you want the whole Empire to hear you?"

Mark's eyes are aflame with passion uncommon among your people. Yet this passion is not uncommon to you. You've worked here for years alongside Mark and Racheal. You understand better than anyone why Mark is furious. Furious with the Galactic Alliance and their Yuuzhan Vong lapdogs. Those... Monsters.

"Of course. Yes." Mark pauses and straightens his uniform. Looking around the room at everyone now present. "...My. Apologies. Everyone."

Rachael straightens herself too. Then they both turn to address the room.

In this moment you recongize Mark anew. His face so different from the shrivel up and broken skeleton you meet before. His grey hair now a youthful and voidless black. His deathly hood and venomous smile now replaced with clothes of stature and a perfectly royal charisma.

"Attention everyone. Rachael and I have some bad news. The Ministers have chosen not to accept our plans for the rebuilding project. They have decided to lean on outside assistance. Once again. ...They have. Mm. They have decided to accept the proposal put forth by Ambassador Sharuu of the Vong Solidarity."

Zero paused again.

"The Reforged Empire once again cows. To our enemies."

...

His speech adjourned. Mark and Rachael grow silent. Looking around the room as if expecting sudden violence. Or worse. That you. A son of the Empire. A son or daughter of Csilla. With generations of work invested in the future of your people. Your planet. This work. This project. ...That you would not, now share in your fellow comrades rage. That you would not now share his passion. Your passion. Your very center. Your leader in all things. That you would now do as the Ministers. And bow to outsiders. Cowing down. Bending the neck to monsters and to aliens alike.

No. His speech was over. But yours... This strange future that affects you? This story. This horror.

No. Your Nightmare was just beginning.


* * * * *


*ooc: Open posting begins now. This account reserves Game Master rights to impose terrible things upon you. Here there be dragons. Ye have been warned.