Tabula Rasa
A polished piece of F.E.A.R Fiction
Written by LostPharoah.
A/N: A few small points, before you begin reading this tiny epic I've been turning over in my mind.
This story is rated M, for violence, a smattering of curses, disturbing subject matter, and possible sexual situations.
Description: Aristide escaped. The F.E.A.R team was torn apart after this second war, with many members dead and gone. New recruits have arrived, most not knowing the horrors in store, innocent of the evil . But one of them will understand this new enemy, better than any other. The statement posed now, is 'Don't judge a book by its cover'—Even if the book has been read before. Who can be trusted, truly? The answer may surprise you.
It takes place after F.E.A.R, but I am unsure where to place it. For now, I will tell you—Forget the ending of F.E.A.R 2. Most of you know what I mean, I do hope. But, I offer no spoilers for those of you who haven't heard the rather shocking news. Let's just say that this takes place after F.E.A.R 2, that sounds right. (Everything happened, except for that last shocking scene.)
Attention: A kind reviewer reminded me of this. Because of the huge problem of Armacham, in my stories universe, F.E.A.R and all Special Teams were merged into one huge force. So, Delta is a part of F.E.A.R, throughout this. Thank you for clearing that up!
This will be multi-chapter.
And now, let us begin. Enjoy Tabula Rasa.
Prologue
"Jesus, Stokes, we just refurbished this fucking hunk of metal. Don't need you bleeding all over the place, guess who gets to clean it up?"
"My most sincere apologies, you son of a bitch. I'll do my best to dodge the bullet next time."
Fight, return, the common banter, rinse and repeat. It was true, he noted—Stokes was bleeding all over the seats that were being used as a makeshift bed. It was alright, the seats weren't needed. Only three were left of Dark Signal, four if they were to count the new pilot. Headquarters would be pleased; now, they could get a smaller chopper. Lord knows the budget was tight enough before this hell broke loose. Imagine the losses. Lives, that may be okay—Everyone dies. But money, God forbid.
Though, now wasn't the proper time to be mentioning God.
A loud crack echoed outside, bright flashes flowing through the helicopter in quick succession. The shadows they created were eerily familiar, and he soon expected the flashes to occur, the creation of bolts to fall out of the sky—But it was impossible to focus, with the quips coming out of the 1st Lieutenants mouth.
"Easy on the turbulence! I'll be dead by the time we reach the base!"
Morales rolled his eyes, sitting on the cold metal floor beside the bleeding, blonde haired powerhouse. "Oh, get off it. It's a flesh wound. Didn't hit any internal organs, just nicked your side. Hell, you got us a valuable piece of information. Aristide is a shitty shot. We can work with that, eh, Becket?"
Glancing up, he forced a smirk, nodding his head. His skin was still dripping with sweat, mind jumbled. He was tempted to sleep it off, but sleep no longer seemed relaxing. If he closed his eyes, he feared what he would see on the other side of his lids. And if he did manage to shut them completely, and drift into a not-so-gentle slumber, he feared opening them. Anything could be standing over his bed.
She could be standing there.
He could search through his emotions, shift through the files in his mind, try to pick out exactly what he felt at that particular moment in time. But there were awaiting eyes on him, and he himself wasn't sure he was ready to investigate it himself.
"We'll get her, no doubt. She's wounded, I'm pretty sure. And even if she isn't, it will take her a while to regroup. Hell, maybe she's dead. Any number of ways it could have happened. Should have left my pistol there, maybe she would have taken herself out. "
Stokes stifled a laugh, a rare thing, but it was gone as soon as it came, replaced by a pained scowl. "Damn it, Becket, of course you choose now to be funny. Wonderful timing."
Morales smirked, leaning over and giving Becket a sound pat on the back, nodding and glancing out the window. "Good to see you still have some spirit. Won't lie, I was pretty worried back there. Sure, three of us were in the 'copter, but I thought maybe only two really came back."
Becket smirked again, to the best of his ability. Manny may as well get a degree in psychology, seemed he understood the situation pretty well.
"Can't get rid of me that easily."
Rain was pounding the shell of the craft, harder every second, and it seemed like everyone was yelling to be heard. It was a short ride back, they would land soon. The realization came that he would have to stand, greet others, give some kind of report. The doors would open, and his feet would touch solid ground. That was fine. His mind, though, maybe it would stay in the clouds. The grey, thrashing clouds.
Red, to pale white, to a deep yellow. His vision was normal, at the moment, but he feared when reality would shift.
Maybe he really didn't come back.
Decent had begun, and the stars stayed covered up by the deep black blanket. They hit the ground with a slight thud, sending more complaints from the Lieutenant—but when the doors opened, the stretcher was waiting. Morales stayed out of the way, as the medical team carefully lifted her and put her on the pale white gurney. The pure white immediately began to turn red where the wound dripped, only prompting more orders from the team outside. They covered her up fully, making sure the rain didn't hit her skin. Having her covered up all the way, made it seem like the body bags he had seen earlier.
Her skeletal body had been searching frantically, but for whom?
'Arthur…'
"Becket! We're free. Time for a brewskie, eh?" Morales gripped the other soldier's shoulder, before jumping out of the chopper, nearly sprinting towards the front door of headquarters. With a heavy sigh, Becket stood, wavering on his feet.
Oddly silent.
He expected the usual signal that she was around. Or, if she wasn't near, it didn't matter. She could manipulate what he saw, what was true. And the second everything around him shifted, the second he could hear ringing in his ears, she was there.
'Help him.'
"Becket! Come on, man, open bar! Lord knows we need it. On the house!" Another voice echoed through the rain, probably someone from another squad, and he quickly made his way inside, not jogging, walking as he normally did, maybe even a slower pace. The rain was cold, and the sweat on his brow mixed with the droplets. He could hear every one hit the ground. Oddly comforting. Normal. No hint of any odd happenings. Yet, his heartbeat wouldn't return to normal. And as he walked under the overhang, and through the open door, instinct told him to glance around, holding out his gun, holding his breath. Surely, she would be in the shadows. The red dress, the doll clutched in her hand. Or the tall, painfully thin naked body, hunched in fear.
Nothing.
He should have been enthused. He should have been excited, relieved, that nothing was happening. The sound of a television in the background, his 'coworkers' hanging around a nearby table, laughing, recounting their tales of heroism.
Things couldn't end this easily. There had been explosions, fires, gunshots. But none of those things could contain her. She wasn't gone.
Looks like optimism was no longer on the menu.
Wandering over to the table, slowly, the humorous talk and well meant jokes ceased, and all eyes came to rest on him. It was unnerving, being stared at; usually, Stokes would say something to distract the others, or would usually be going on and on about some new mission plan.
A younger member of the team, one that he knew to be a paper-pusher, looked like he wanted to say something. But before it could be uttered, a voice came over the loudspeaker, making all of them jump.
'Attention. Effecting immediately, all members of the F.E.A.R team, please converge in the main conference room. I repeat…'
A chorus of mumbles and curses were heard throughout the area, fists banging on the table, eyes rolling. The only words spoken before everyone followed orders were "Can we bring out beers?" and "This had better be good."
"I swear to God, will they always run us into the ground like this? We have enough on our plates already. We made it out of that skirmish, but it ain't over. We're human, though, we need our fucking beauty sleep."
"Ah, shut the hell up, Morales. From the looks of it, Becket and Stokes did all the damn work. What did you do, stay behind on your computer?"
As they entered the conference room, the various jibes ended. The serious face of Rowdy Betters stared at them all, as he waved a hand, inviting them to sit. Some bowed their heads, others continued to parade about, seeming to be without a care in the world. As soon as they were all seated, the television screen in front of them flashed, with four faces and names appearing, side by side.
Cedric Griffin. Harold Keegan. Redd Jankowski. James Fox.
The effect of these photos, taken when the recently departed teammates had joined the squad, had an instantaneous effect. Heads were bowed; hats were removed and placed over the chest. Becket averted his eyes, staring at the floor, like a child who had been scolded for eating a snack too close to dinner.
'She wanted me.'
After a few moments of thick silence, the Commissioner spoke up, after a quick clearing of the throat. "We have lost some fine soldiers. I ask that before you celebrate, you think of them. Of their families. And also, of the fact that we haven't won yet. We're getting news, the situation has changed. Drastically."
Eyes glanced up quickly because of this. No one had the strength or conviction to speak, after the reprimand. Another clearing of the throat, and he continued.
"We don't have full details. It seems that the bastards over at Armacham were working on a technology that we weren't aware of. Something that may have a drastic effect on our mission. Seems they gave up on it a while back, but they were further along than we expected, when it was dug out of the vault. It may have been too late to use it."
He needed to speak up. "Commissioner, is it to do with Alma?" A silly question, he had mentioned the vault. What else was there to Armacham anymore, than this monstrocity they were responsible for creating? She wouldn't have been a monster, otherwise.
No. She couldn't have been. They could have helped, why didn't they help?
'It is the nature of men to make monsters.'
A stiff nod confirmed. And it made the others more attentive too, dragging them away from their alcoholic beverages.
"Something to get rid of that bitch?"
Rodney glared at the employee. "Maybe it isn't the best time to tell you. I'll let you know the basics—It is a kind of suppressant, for her powers. Some kind of machine, that can be worn. It was small, we almost overlooked it. Seems one of our cleanup crews found some blueprints for it."
The television screen flashed again, showing something far too complicated for drunk, exhausted soldiers to understand. But they pretended to know, ears open, minds trying to stay with the flow.
"Alma Wade was a troubled child, as most of you now know. Her nightmares, her psychic abilities, caused her a kind of pain and strife that her father wished to rid her of. But that wish was warped, with the help of Aristide, and perhaps the madness that he had done his best to hide. Before they put her in the vault, this was being crafted. It may not stop her fully, but one could say that it would hold her in one place, somehow put a leash on her."
Everyone seemed to let out one collective sigh. It was one of happiness—but, of course, with the new realization that he had become a pessimist, Becket decided that he would have to be the bearer of bad news.
"Alma is a spirit, a ghost. We can't put it on her unless she has a physical body. Hers is long gone."
He was sure he felt a kick under the table, along with a few four letter words being whispered out of the mouths around him.
The commissioner didn't look fazed, as he nodded his assent. "Correct. Our own technicians are working on the prototype…It was so close to completion, but we think that they lost focus on it. Most likely, Alma tried to keep them from their work. Hid the plans, brainwashed them, who knows. But it seems she isn't interfering, at the moment. Hell, we may have already finished it. They have an idea of how to use it, I haven't been told."
The question hadn't been answered. Just some more questions, always questions.
" We've already shared this interesting news to our new recruits. You'll have another three to work with, Becket, I'll leave them to you. Stokes won't be back for a while, and it seems like you've just gained years of experience in a twenty four hour period. You look like shit, son."
A sharp phone ring made them all jump one more time, and Rodney picked up without missing a beat. No hello, no how are you—Just an obviously fast talking voice on the other end. They all tried to listen in vain, as the commissioners voice flashed more than one emotion.
"You're insane. You're all fucking insane. Right, well, if anyone dies…If you're sure. Understood, Mister President. Understood. They will be informed. I'll let them sleep, first, don't you think—No? What do you mean, new enemy, isn't it Alm--Alright. Thank you, Sir. Yes, I'll brief them. Yes. "
The phone was set down, painfully slow. Some were standing, some seemed to be waiting for a punch line. The man before them seemed calm, to the eye. But anyone who had known him for any period of time, knew to look at his eyes. And in them, were three emotions, very distinct.
Fear, Curiosity, and Anger.
Silence.
"It looks like you'll have four new recruits, Becket." He took off his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "I have a feeling things are about to get messy."
Prologue Complete, 100%
Coming soon, Interval One: Longhand Plans – In which a new enemy seems to be creating problems, bigger than anyone expected. And the fourth recruit causes riots and rifts in the company.