The Discovery
Chapter 1
"Imagine a world without a sun. With no sun, the world would descend into chaos. War would run rampant through our once prosperous cities and famine would consume our population. Everything, and everyone you have ever loved in this world would die. Our world as we know it would be forever lost to the clutches of darkness and ignorance. Biotech Industries is that sun. We shine as brightly as we can to keep you . . . and America safe." The images flash by on every brightly colored television screen in our country sporting a small man with black-rimmed spectacles and a light brown tuft of hair.
"Our technology has given you the simple commodities of life. Your medicines are manufactured by our pharmaceuticals branch; your communications are brought to you by our top of the line satellites and soon, very soon, your militaries will have the benefit of our newest divisions specializing in advanced weaponry: psychological, biological, and advanced mechanics. Soon the civilians of our good America will never have to fear an attack from its enemies." The man on the T.V wears a black overcoat. He is pudgy, in his fifties, and the C.E.O. of Biotech Industries. Clean-shaven and high strung he has pruned skin and, like all businessmen, has his own corporate agenda. His eyes, small and brown, dart in their sockets above his spectacles as he makes his speech, looking and daring for anybody in his wide audience to speak out against him.
"We have a job, nay, a duty to keep this country safe and secure and with Biotech Industries by it's side you can trust that you are in safe hands. Thank you and good night." His gravelly voice faded out over over the speakers as his image did the same on the hanging screen. This screen in particular hanged on the wall of the Military Applications and Advanced Weaponry division of Biotech Industries. It along with a whole wall of screens were all the size of professional (something descriptive of movie theatre screens)\
"That fucking liar."
"Criss, don't worry about it."
"He needs to die," the man called Criss said, "so why doesn't anybody kill him?" Criss was scientific and short-fused. He had straight dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders and the style of a man who's hands always rifled through to the scalp. Criss spent many sleepless nights in this manner, with his head in his hands. He hated this place, and yet it was James who kept him here. He had know James since the age of five and it was James, his dearest friend that he chose to confide in. Looking at James he knew it would be better to keep his mouth shut about the corruption, the lies.
"Someday," James replied, "someday it will all be over."
Someday, thought Criss, couldn't come soon enough in this hell hole. He thought of the immortalized Grant Marshall, the C.E.O, and decided that this man was going to die.
A voice came in over the networked television speakers, low and sharp. "Everybody back to work. Stations in five."
Hearing this whole crowds of people began migrating towards their stations, some sprinting, all moving like flocks of sheep on the move in their white lab coats. It didn't take long before near everyone had deserted and the hallways seemed like a ghost town. It wasn't long until Patrolmen started their shifts, and sure enough they came out of hiding at the four minute mark.
Patrolmen were hired thugs with gas masks and baseball bats hanging at their sides. They wore crimson riot gear for times when things got out of hand. Things rarely got out of hand, and when they didn't, things were forced out of hand intentionally. "Hey, you two, get moving." Patrolmen got right to the point and if that didn't work then people were missed. "Get to your stations," he said with a grin. His hand twitched towards the bat, begging for a fight. As Criss and James caught eyes with him they started towards their stations as well. The Patrolmen's radio rang out from under his gear, singing about a disturbance that caught his attention. "I'm comming." Growling angrily he sprinted away down the hall behind them.
They both walked in silence, hearing their own steps echo, and after a few moments they arrived at a large steel door labeled: Advanced and Applied Sciences. A keypad prompted them both as they walked up.
"Password please."
"3701," Criss recited.
"9521," Stated James.
"37019521. . . password accepted." The voice was feminine, and mechanical. It was fake.
The doors whired open smoothly and a breeze of cool wind wafted through the doorway as they walked through into the next room, small, square, and white. They entered calmly and as the doors closed behind them the feminine voice asked "Optics?" Two bright blue glowing scanners were revealed from behind the wall, and Both James and Criss put an eye to each of theirs, and they recieved a low beeb in return. "Analyzing optics scan . . . analyzation
"Our technology has given you the simple commodities of life. Your medicines are manufactured by our pharmaceuticals branch; your communications are brought to you by our top of the line satellites and soon, very soon, your militaries will have the benefit of our newest divisions specializing in advanced weaponry: psychological, biological, and advanced mechanics. Soon the civilians of our good America will never have to fear an attack from its enemies." The man on the T.V wears a black overcoat. He is pudgy, in his fifties, and the C.E.O. of Biotech Industries. Clean-shaven and high strung he has pruned skin and, like all businessmen, has his own corporate agenda. His eyes, small and brown, dart in their sockets above his spectacles as he makes his speech, looking and daring for anybody in his wide audience to speak out against him.
"We have a job, nay, a duty to keep this country safe and secure and with Biotech Industries by it's side you can trust that you are in safe hands. Thank you and good night." His gravelly voice faded out over over the speakers as his image did the same on the hanging screen. This screen in particular hanged on the wall of the Military Applications and Advanced Weaponry division of Biotech Industries. It along with a whole wall of screens were all the size of professional (something descriptive of movie theatre screens)\
"That fucking liar."
"Criss, don't worry about it."
"He needs to die," the man called Criss said, "so why doesn't anybody kill him?" Criss was scientific and short-fused. He had straight dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders and the style of a man who's hands always rifled through to the scalp. Criss spent many sleepless nights in this manner, with his head in his hands. He hated this place, and yet it was James who kept him here. He had know James since the age of five and it was James, his dearest friend that he chose to confide in. Looking at James he knew it would be better to keep his mouth shut about the corruption, the lies.
"Someday," James replied, "someday it will all be over."
Someday, thought Criss, couldn't come soon enough in this hell hole. He thought of the immortalized Grant Marshall, the C.E.O, and decided that this man was going to die.
A voice came in over the networked television speakers, low and sharp. "Everybody back to work. Stations in five."
Hearing this whole crowds of people began migrating towards their stations, some sprinting, all moving like flocks of sheep on the move in their white lab coats. It didn't take long before near everyone had deserted and the hallways seemed like a ghost town. It wasn't long until Patrolmen started their shifts, and sure enough they came out of hiding at the four minute mark.
Patrolmen were hired thugs with gas masks and baseball bats hanging at their sides. They wore crimson riot gear for times when things got out of hand. Things rarely got out of hand, and when they didn't, things were forced out of hand intentionally. "Hey, you two, get moving." Patrolmen got right to the point and if that didn't work then people were missed. "Get to your stations," he said with a grin. His hand twitched towards the bat, begging for a fight. As Criss and James caught eyes with him they started towards their stations as well. The Patrolmen's radio rang out from under his gear, singing about a disturbance that caught his attention. "I'm comming." Growling angrily he sprinted away down the hall behind them.
They both walked in silence, hearing their own steps echo, and after a few moments they arrived at a large steel door labeled: Advanced and Applied Sciences. A keypad prompted them both as they walked up.
"Password please."
"3701," Criss recited.
"9521," Stated James.
"37019521. . . password accepted." The voice was feminine, and mechanical. It was fake.
The doors whired open smoothly and a breeze of cool wind wafted through the doorway as they walked through into the next room, small, square, and white. They entered calmly and as the doors closed behind them the feminine voice asked "Optics?" Two bright blue glowing scanners were revealed from behind the wall, and Both James and Criss put an eye to each of theirs, and they recieved a low beeb in return. "Analyzing optics scan . . . analyzation
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idea by Jacob Haddad, my friend the genius. but written by me. inspiration comes from Rae Formoso : ). Uber first darft though. needs work.